stopped arriving.
After friends returned to their normal lives.
After the world continued moving, even though mine had split apart.
That kind of grief simply moves into your life.
It becomes part of breakfast.
Part of driving to work.
Part of Tuesday afternoons.
Part of breathing.
I had lived with it for thirteen years.
My daughter Emily was gone.
My husband Carl had left three days after her funeral.
And somehow, I had continued raising Emily’s twin sister, Lily.
Then, on the night Lily turned eighteen, my father came into
