My mother had been gone less than a month when my stepfather dropped the bomb: he was getting married.
The house still smelled like her—rosemary oil lingering in the air, her slippers by the bed, her favorite mug in the dish rack. I couldn’t touch any of it. Packing her things felt like erasing her.
Cancer hadn’t taken her all at once. It stripped her strength, her independence, her hair—piece by piece. Near the end, she apologized constantly. For needing help. For existing in a failing body. I held her hand and told her it wasn’t her fault.
Paul, my stepfather, and Linda, my mother’s best friend, had been there through it all, managing medications, driving to appointments, staying overnight in hospitals. Linda called us a “team.”
Four weeks after the funeral, Paul showed up at my apartment. Hands trembling, hair thinning, he said, “There’s something you need to hear.”
“Linda and I are getting married,” he blurted.
My chest tightened. “Mom died 28 days ago.”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
Thirty-two days later, they were married. Photos went online: champagne lace dress, peonies—my mother’s favorite. That’s when I remembered her necklace—gold with tiny diamonds, a gift she had promised me since I was a child.
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