I barely slept. I stopped eating properly. At Sarah’s funeral, my oldest son Mason had to steady me because my legs almost gave out walking toward the front row.
But life doesn’t stop just because your heart does.
The kids still needed breakfast.
Permission slips still needed signatures.
Laundry still piled up.
So somehow, I learned to survive.
I watched online tutorials teaching me how to braid my daughters’ hair. I figured out how to cook meals Sarah used to make effortlessly. I learned how to calm my youngest son after nightmares when he cried for his mother in the middle of the night.
Every single day felt exhausting.
For illustrative purposes only
Then, six months later, I finally admitted I couldn’t keep pretending everything was under control.
The house was a mess. Bills covered the kitchen counter. Laundry overflowed from the guest room. I hadn’t even touched the garage since Sarah got sick.
So one weekend, I asked my mother to take the kids overnight while I tried to get the house back in order.
She agreed immediately.
That Friday afternoon, I asked my third child, Lucy, to pack her things for Grandma Diane’s house.
The moment I mentioned it, she froze.
My nine-year-old stared at the floor, nervously twisting her sleeve around her fingers.
