I had spent eighteen years telling myself a story I thought was true. That Charles, my husband—the love of my youth, the father of my child—was gone. Taken in a flash of twisted metal and flashing sirens. That he’d kissed my forehead, promised to be right back with milk and eggs, and never returned.
They told me it was a car accident. They told me it was instant. And I believed them. How could I not?
There was a funeral. A closed casket, yes—but I was told there’d been trauma, too much damage to his face. His mother, Diane, made all the arrangements. She insisted on cremation. Swift. Quiet. Final. She told me to rest. To grieve in peace. She would “handle everything.” I was twenty-three, barely hanging on. My daughter, Susie, was two weeks old. My body still ached from childbirth, my mind was fogged with sleep deprivation and sorrow.
