ADVERTISEMENT
She wanted to become a veterinarian, to work with animals that couldn't speak for themselves.
"They can't tell you what hurts them, Mom. I want to learn to listen anyway," she always said.
The house was silent now. No laughter sounded in the kitchen. No indie music drifted from her room, nor the sound of her office chair on wheels scraping across the floor as she danced between sets of homework.
Just the disturbing silence of a house that has lost its center.
David stood by my side, at the edge of the grave. His black suit was too neat, his posture too erect—every detail meticulously mastered. Her face remained frozen: no ticks, no tears, not the slightest crack in her mask. He was like a man reciting a memorized text for a play he felt nothing about.
But that had been the case for a long time. The distance between us had slowly grown, without a crash, like a silent crack. And one day, there was nothing left—nothing but air between two strangers playing the roles of husband and wife.
On the way back from the cemetery, I leaned my forehead against the car window and watched the world pass by like a watercolor fading into gray. My throat ached from hours of crying, but I had no more tears to shed.
I was just hollow.
"Shay," David said, clearing his throat, "we should go to the donation center. I want to check their schedules. Linda said she'd go home to bring out the food so people could serve themselves. I told him to do it in the garden."
“Why?” I turned to him, confused.
"I think we should start packing Emily's things, Shay. You know... while it's still fresh. Otherwise, his business will remain intact for years to come."
“Are you serious, David?” I asked, blinking slowly as I felt a headache coming on.
"The more you cling to the past, the harder it becomes to move forward. It's like ripping off a bandage; you have to do it quickly. Think about it, Shay. This is the most sensible solution."
"My child has just been buried, David. Hold on to a little."
I didn't say anything else. I couldn't. I just stared at him and wondered what kind of father was in such a hurry to forget.
As we parked in the driveway, my heart sank, thinking that my child would never walk down the hall again. She would never come home, take off her shoes, or ask what I had prepared for her to snack on.
As I walked down the hallway, I noticed that the boxes were already neatly stacked against the wall. Handwritten labels from David, in his neat calligraphy, stared back at me.
Linda told him it might help to keep himself busy. Perhaps she was thinking about chores, like washing dishes and doing laundry, rather than extinguishing our daughter's existence.
Give. Throw. Keep.
He had already begun.
“When did you do that?” I flinched.
"When you were at the funeral home this morning. You prepared it... I couldn't do anything else, Shay. This is my way of dealing with it."
I stood in the hallway for a while, looking at them. It was surreal, as if I had entered someone else's house, a house where my daughter had never existed. The boxes gave the impression of a transaction, as if grief were a task that had to be completed before the next Tuesday.
I didn't say another word; I simply turned on my heel and walked up the stairs. The bathroom door clicked quietly behind me as I locked it. I sat on the edge of the tub, leaned forward, and buried my face in my hands.
The sobs that followed weren't loud. They didn't need to be. They shook my ribs like a silent earthquake. The kind that comes without warning, that turns everything upside down and makes you wonder if things will ever be stable again.
I heard people downstairs eating the funeral meal Linda and I had ordered. I ignored the people knocking on the bathroom door. I ignored Linda asking if I was okay. I ignored everything.
