You think grief has a bottom.
You think it’s the moment the police officer stands on your porch, hat in hand, asking if you’re Tessa.
You think it’s the sound your father makes — something between a cry and a collapse — when he realizes your mother isn’t coming home.
You think that’s the worst part.
You’re wrong.
The real bottom is standing in your backyard eight days later… watching your father marry your aunt where your mother used to plant tulips.
My mom’s name was Laura.
The accident was sudden. One moment she was picking up medication. The next, our front door held news that split reality into “before” and “after.”
The days that followed felt blurry — casseroles on the counter, sympathy cards, flowers wilting faster than anyone could throw them away.
And my aunt Corrine.
She cried the loudest.
She held my hands and kept saying, “We’ll get through this, Tessa. I promise.”
Apparently… she meant with my father.
Eight Days
Eight days after my mom died, Corrine married him.
