He handled the arrangements when I could barely speak without my voice breaking. He made the phone calls, filled out the paperwork, and stood beside me during the service. His steady presence kept me from collapsing under the weight of it all.
When it was over, when the house grew quiet, and the world moved on, he did not disappear.
He came by every afternoon.
Sometimes he brought groceries I had not thought to buy. Sometimes it was a container of soup or a loaf of bread. Other times, he brought nothing at all. He would simply sit across from me, both of us staring at Malcolm’s empty chair, sharing a silence that did not feel uncomfortable.
He never overstepped. Not once. There was no pity in his actions, no expectation, and no pressure. He was simply there, solid and dependable in a way that felt almost miraculous.
Time passed, though I could not say how quickly.
Grief did not vanish, but it softened at the edges. It became something I could carry rather than something that crushed me completely.
One morning, I realized I had slept through the night.
