Thanksgiving lost all meaning the year Marla died. She was only 49, and cancer stole her piece by piece until she became more shadow than wife. I spent her last three months in a recliner beside her hospice bed, listening to breaths grow thinner each night. After she passed, I forgot what it felt like to breathe without fear.
For a long time, my world revolved around Sarah, our only child—my reason to get out of bed. Holidays, birthdays, traditions—they all faded while I quietly sank under words I never learned to say out loud.
That Thanksgiving morning, the house felt wrong—too polished, too still, as if it was waiting for something that would never come. I made coffee out of habit, hearing Marla’s voice in my mind: Stick to a routine. It’ll help you get your feet back under you.
I grabbed the brown jacket Sarah had given me years ago and stepped outside, just to feel the cold. I walked to the grocery store and bought food I didn’t need—rotisserie chicken, rolls, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie. I told myself it was for a proper dinner, though I knew I wouldn’t eat any of it.Continue reading…
