The Day Grief Turned Into Something Else
People say grief hits you like a truck.
But they’re wrong.
A truck would be quick. A truck would be over in seconds.
Grief is slower… it’s like drowning while everyone around you is breathing just fine.
That’s exactly how I felt after Peter died.
Three weeks ago, in the middle of the night, I went to sleep with his arm wrapped around me and his breath warm against my neck. I remember thinking how safe I felt.
The next morning, I woke up to something cold and lifeless next to me.
Peter was gone.
I was screaming, begging the paramedics to bring him back. But it was too late.
“Pulmonary embolism,” the doctor said later. I remembered Peter saying his leg hurt a couple of days before—just a small ache in his calf. I thought it was nothing. Maybe a pulled muscle.
But when I searched deep vein thrombosis online, all the signs were there. Every single one.
Why didn’t I see it?
Why didn’t I make him go to the doctor?
If I had just spoken up, just pushed a little harder… Peter would still be alive.
That thought crushed me. My world didn’t just break—it completely fell in on itself.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t eat. I curled up in our bed, hugging Peter’s pillow like it was the last piece of him I had left. I forgot how to breathe without him.
Peter had been mine since I was 17. He was my anchor, my safety, my home. Now I was just… floating. Alone. Scared.
That afternoon, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
It was Miranda—Peter’s sister. Her voice was soft and gentle.
“Kate? Sweetheart, you shouldn’t be alone. Come over. I made some tea.”
I didn’t feel ready to see anyone. But Miranda was family. She had lost Peter too. Maybe being with her would help.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
I pulled on a pair of leggings and Peter’s hoodie—the big gray one that still smelled like him. It wrapped around me like a shield.
When I passed by the mirror in the hallway, I stopped.
I didn’t look like me.
Pale skin. Sunken eyes. Like a ghost.
I stared too long. My heart ached, thinking again how Peter had died so suddenly—how it could have been prevented if I had just done something.
A sharp pain hit my chest.
I missed him so much it hurt to be alive.
Then my phone chimed. Another message from Miranda.
Are you still coming?
I replied yes and stepped outside, even though I wanted to disappear.
When I got to Miranda’s house, she gave me a quick, stiff hug. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and meatloaf. Ordinary smells. Everyday life.
But everything felt wrong.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said, leading me into the living room. “Sit. The tea’s still hot.”
The tea was sweet—too sweet—but it helped soothe my throat. I sat across from her, clutching the mug, thinking she’d say something comforting. Something kind.
Instead, she leaned in with a look I couldn’t quite understand.
Then she asked me a question that made my stomach drop.
“What are you doing with the baby fund?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Well,” she said, like it was obvious, “Peter’s gone now. You two won’t be having kids. And you always said you love my girls. So why not just give the money to us? We could use it for their college fund.”
I sat frozen. Mug halfway to my lips. I thought maybe I’d misheard her.
But she was serious.
The baby fund was something Peter and I had set up three years ago. We had planned everything—doctor visits, baby supplies, even someone to help after the birth. We were saving for our future family.
Now that dream was gone.
I hadn’t even thought about the money. But Miranda had. And apparently, she had a plan.
“And actually,” she continued, as if that bombshell wasn’t enough, “you should help me with the girls this week. It’ll keep you busy.”
Before I could say a word, she slid a piece of paper toward me.
A list. Written neatly in her handwriting:
- Pick up kids from school on Tuesday and Thursday
- Help Emma with her math homework
- Draw pictures for Lily’s art project
- Bake cookies for the school fundraiser
“Better than just sitting around crying, right?” she said, smiling like she’d just handed me a gift.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I could barely get out of bed. I hadn’t eaten a real meal in days. And she wanted me to babysit? Bake cookies? Be a second mom to her kids?
And that was after she asked for our money. Money Peter and I saved for our future.
I tried to speak. “Miranda, I don’t think—”
My voice cracked. Tears came hard and fast.
Not the graceful kind you see in movies. These were ugly, shaking sobs that made my whole body tremble.
Miranda waved her hand like I was being dramatic.
“Oh, come on. Don’t dwell on it. You need to move on, Kate. And this is how you do it.”
Move on?
My husband had just died. I still felt his absence in every breath I took.
I opened my mouth to tell her exactly how wrong she was—when a knock interrupted us.
Miranda rolled her eyes. “Probably another delivery guy who can’t read house numbers.”
She walked to the door, muttering under her breath.
But it wasn’t a delivery.
It was Susan—Peter and Miranda’s mother.
She walked in like a storm, her eyes locked on her daughter.
“Miranda,” she said sharply, “you will never see a single dime of that money.”
Miranda looked like she’d been slapped. “Mom? What are you talking about?”
Susan pointed to the open window behind me.
“I was walking by. Your front window’s open. I heard everything.”
She crossed the room and stood right in front of her daughter.
“You’ve been using me to watch your kids for years. Now you’re trying to take money from your brother’s widow and dump your children on her while she’s grieving? What is wrong with you?”
Miranda’s face turned red. “I was just trying to help her!”
“No,” Susan snapped, “you were helping yourself. As always.”
Her voice was cold. Final.
“I’m done, Miranda. Don’t ask Kate for anything again.”
Miranda exploded. “You always take her side! She’s wallowing, Mom! She needs to pull herself together!”
Susan’s eyes narrowed. “She’s mourning. She lost her husband. You don’t get to decide how she grieves.”
Then she turned to me, and her face softened.
“Go home, sweetheart. I’ll handle this.”
I could barely speak, but I nodded and whispered, “Thank you.”
Then I left.
My heart was pounding as I drove home. My hands were shaking on the wheel. I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
Miranda had always been a little selfish. But I never thought she’d ambush me like that.
And Susan… Susan had stood up for me. Fiercely. Loudly.
We had always been polite, friendly even, but never close.
Peter used to tell me how much she changed after their dad died. She had to hold it all together—for Peter and Miranda. She never got to fall apart.
Maybe now she saw the same pain in me.
I promised myself I’d call her later.
That evening, I sat in Peter’s chair, holding a cold cup of coffee. The room was quiet, except for the soft hum of the fridge.
Then my phone buzzed.
It was a text from Miranda:
“Thanks for turning my own mother against me. I hope you’re happy. And next time, maybe don’t make everything about you.”
I stared at the message.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
But there was nothing left to say.
I deleted the message and turned my phone on silent.
I was still broken. Still drowning.
But I remembered something Peter used to say whenever I worried about letting someone down:
“Some people love you only when you’re useful, Kate. The rest? They love you because you’re you.”
Susan loved me. Not because I could give her something. Not because I was useful.
But because I belonged to Peter. And now, I belonged to her, too.