A woman who woke in the middle of the night, reaching across an empty bed. A woman who sat at the kitchen table long after her coffee had gone cold, unable to remember what she had planned to do. A woman who moved through her own home as if it no longer belonged to her.
Grief was not poetic. It did not come in gentle waves or meaningful reflections. It was heavy and physical. It settled into my chest and made it difficult to breathe. It drained color from everything. Food lost its taste. Time lost its structure. Days blurred together into something shapeless and endless.
People called at first. They brought casseroles, flowers, and soft voices filled with sympathy. But as weeks turned into months, their lives resumed, as they should have. Mine did not.
There was only one person who remained constant.
Graham.
Graham had been Malcolm’s best friend since they were boys. He had stood beside him at our wedding, laughing louder than anyone else. He had been there for every milestone, including birthdays, holidays, the birth of our children, and the quiet years in between.
He was part of our family in every way that mattered.
When Malcolm di3d, Graham stepped in without being asked.
