"Nobody tells you about the grocery store. About standing in the cereal aisle for ten minutes because you saw her favorite crackers and suddenly you couldn't move. It's been eight months. I thought I'd be further along by now.

But grief doesn't work like that. Some Tuesdays are harder than the funeral was. The funeral you're supposed to cry at — people expect it, hold space for it. But a Tuesday in October? Nobody braces for that.

I've started doing this thing where I talk to her in the car on the way to work. Not out loud, just in my head. I tell her about my day before it's even happened. She used to call me every morning on my commute. Forty-five years of that and then silence.

I'm not looking for advice. I don't want anyone to tell me she's in a better place or that time heals things. I just needed to say it out loud somewhere that felt safe. That sometimes I'm not okay. That the cereal aisle almost broke me today. And that I think that's allowed."