I heard the front door slam a few seconds later.
Trying to Make Sense of the Impossible
That night, Robert called me around eleven o’clock. I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep or think or do anything productive.
“This isn’t right,” he said without preamble. “None of this feels right, Claire. Something is wrong here.”
“It’s grief,” I replied automatically, repeating the same excuse Laura had given us. “People do strange things when they’re grieving. They make decisions that don’t make sense. They cling to whoever is nearby. It’s a trauma response.”
“Mom died three months ago.”
“I know.”
“Three months, and he’s already moving on with her sister? That doesn’t strike you as insane?”
I closed my eyes. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Well, I think it’s wrong. I think there’s something we’re not seeing.”
But I didn’t want to see it. I didn’t want to question it. Because questioning meant confronting something too painful to examine closely. So I chose to believe the easier story—that two broken people had found comfort in shared grief, and even though the timeline felt rushed and inappropriate, at least they weren’t suffering alone.
I don’t know who I was trying to convince—Robert or myself.
