She called it crocheting. I called it her way of trying to hold our lives together, one tiny animal at a time.
I’m Brooklyn, a 44-year-old widow and, for the past year, a cancer patient.
My husband, David, died when Ava was two, leaving me with nothing but our house, a pile of bills, and a toddler who still smelled like baby shampoo.
I called it her way of trying to hold our lives together.
His family stepped in at first. For a week after the funeral, the house was full of sympathy casseroles, offers to help with the paperwork, and whispers that stopped when I walked in.
I was barely able to keep myself upright, let alone decipher the stack of insurance forms and legal documents they slid in front of me.
“Just sign here, Brooklyn,” my mother-in-law had said, all brisk comfort and cold hands. “We’ll take care of everything. You need to rest.”
