“We didn’t plan this,” Laura said quickly. “Please believe that. Grief just… does things to people.”
Dad nodded. “We leaned on each other. We understood the same pain. One thing led to another.”
My brother stood up. “You’re saying this three months after Mom died. Three months.”
“Please believe that. Grief just… does things to people.”
“I know how it sounds,” Dad replied. “But life is short. Losing your mother taught me that.”
That sentence burned. I wanted to scream that she was the one who lost her life. Not him.
Instead, I sat there, frozen.
Laura squeezed Dad’s hand harder. “We love each other. And we’re getting married.”
The words landed wrong. Too fast. Too rehearsed. I remember nodding. I don’t remember deciding to. My brother didn’t say anything. He just walked out of the room.
“We love each other. And we’re getting married.”
Later that night, he called me.
“This isn’t right. None of this feels right.”
“It’s grief,” I replied automatically. “People do strange things.”
I don’t know who I was trying to convince.
