After her death, the world did not stop, even though mine felt like it had. The days that followed were quiet in an unfamiliar way, as if sound itself had learned to tread carefully. The hospital room emptied, machines silenced, flowers arrived with notes that tried—earnestly but imperfectly—to capture sympathy. I moved through those early hours on instinct alone, doing what needed to be done without fully understanding how my body knew to keep going.
Grief is not only sorrow; it is disorientation. I found myself reaching for my phone to message her before remembering, again and again, that there would be no reply. I listened for her voice in my head, half expecting guidance, half fearing the silence. In those moments, I realized how deeply she had woven herself into my daily life—not just as my daughter, but as a presence, a steady emotional anchor. Continue reading…
