Grief numbed everything — sound, color, time itself. Everything except her.
Eight days after my mother died, she married my father.
No transition. No explanation. Just white chairs set up in the backyard and a towering wedding cake where my mother used to plant tulips every spring. I watched from the window as Corrine instructed someone to pull those flowers out.
“They’ll ruin the photos,” she said lightly.
“Those were Mom’s,” I told her.
“She loved projects,” Corrine replied sweetly. “But she made this house… complicated. We’re fixing that.”
Guests came, confused but smiling. Some hugged me and whispered that at least my father wouldn’t be alone.
An hour before the ceremony, Corrine cornered me and flashed her ring.
“You should be grateful. Your dad needs someone.”
“My mom’s been gone less than two weeks.”
“This is healing,” she said.
“It looks rushed,” I answered.
My father walked in then.
