Three months later, Frank collapsed in our kitchen. He had been repairing the cabinet hinge Catherine used to swing from and asked me to pass the screwdriver. His grip loosened, his knees struck the tile, and the noise split through me.
“Frank! Look at me!” I screamed, slapping his face, begging his eyes to lock onto mine. In the ER, a doctor said, “Stress cardiomyopathy,” as casually as a forecast. A nurse murmured, “Broken heart syndrome,” and I despised her for giving it a gentle name.
At the funeral, people told me, “You’re so strong,” and I nodded on reflex. Later, alone in the car, I pounded the steering wheel until my wrists throbbed. I had buried my husband while my daughter was still missing, and my body didn’t know which grief to hold first.
Time moved forward anyway—steady and indifferent. I worked, paid bills, smiled at strangers, then wept under the shower where the water concealed it. Every year on Catherine’s birthday, I bought a pink-frosted cupcake and lit a single candle upstairs.
I sat in Frank’s rocking chair and whispered, “Come home.” Some nights it sounded like a prayer; others, like a challenge. The room never replied, but I kept speaking.
