Grief doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t come with instructions or timelines or warning signs. One minute you’re making dinner, and the next you’re crying over the way someone used to stir their tea. That’s where the Martins were when Elaine died. She was more than Rachel’s mom or Lily’s grandma she was the kind of person who just… held things together. Even when no one noticed.
And then she was gone. A stroke. No buildup, no drama. Just gone.
The house changed after that. Quieter, yes, but not in a peaceful way. It was like something had been unplugged. Rachel barely spoke. David went into autopilot, the kind where you do everything right but feel nothing. Lily stopped showing up at breakfast. Even their dog Max lay around like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to be doing. No one really knew how to reach for each other. They were grieving in different languages.
A Cat, Because Why Not
Rachel wasn’t looking for a cat. Not really. She was up late scrolling through nonsense recipes she wasn’t cooking, clothes she wasn’t buying. And then, by chance or something like it, she ended up on a local shelter’s site. There was Oliver. Five years old, ginger fur, a little white patch on his chest. His face looked tired in a soft way, like he’d seen a few things but wasn’t bitter about it.
It wasn’t a decision, not really. She just got in the car and drove to the shelter. The people there seemed surprised she didn’t ask many questions. She just said, “I’ll take him,” and that was that.