Three months after my mom’s funeral, my dad married her sister.
I told myself grief makes people do strange things. I repeated it like a mantra, like something learned in therapy or overheard at a support group. I clung to it because the alternative felt unbearable.
I didn’t think anything could hurt more than watching my mom die.
She fought breast cancer for almost three years. By the end, she barely had the strength to sit up, but she still worried about everyone else. She asked if I’d eaten, if my brother Robert was keeping up with his bills, if Dad remembered his blood pressure medication.