The day my grandmother passed, something inside my life shifted—quietly at first, then sharply enough to split my marriage right down the center.
I’m Mira, thirty-six, living just outside Portland in one of those calm neighborhoods where everyone waves politely and pretends everything is perfect. And for years, I played along. I had the tidy house, the sweet twins, the stable marriage. People saw us and assumed we were solid. I assumed it too.
But grief has a way of peeling the paint off the truth.
The First Crack
When my grandmother died at ninety-two, the loss hit deeper than I ever expected. She was the one who taught me how to bake lavender cookies, how to sew, how to stand tall even when life bent you. Losing her felt like losing the map of who I used to be.
Three days after the funeral, I went back to her house—the little hydrangea-lined place on the hill—to gather her things. I picked up her afghan blanket, still smelling faintly of lavender soap, and felt my throat tighten.
That’s when Paul started pushing.
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