The house still smelled like candle wax and funeral lilies when Austin walked in without knocking.
Ernest had been gone just one week.
I had put him in the ground on a gray Tuesday wearing the white linen shirt he loved, with his rosary folded between his hands and the little Key West photo tucked into his pocket like a secret I wanted him to keep.
For seven days, I cried until my eyes burned.
On the eighth day, I bought the cruise ticket.
Not because I was being dramatic.
Because after forty years of being everyone’s spare tire, emergency fund, nurse, cook, driver, babysitter, and quiet place to dump their pain, I finally understood something simple.
Grief was heavy.
But being used was heavier.
When Ernest got sick, I sold the wedding earrings he gave me so I could afford his medicine.
When Austin lost his job, I emptied what I had saved because he said he just needed a little help.
When Chloe had the baby, I slept on their couch for three months, waking up for bottles while she told everyone I was “so lucky to have purpose.”
Then, at Ernest’s funeral, my son did not wrap his arms around me.
He looked past the cemetery dirt on my shoes and asked, “Mom, have you thought about what you’re going to do with the house?”
That question sat inside me all week.
