The quiet after
When Nan lost her partner, she didn’t stop being herself. She still drove, still cooked, still did the crossword before lunch.
She was capable, independent and perfectly able to get on with life. But the house had gone quiet. The person she’d shared every small moment with was gone, and the days got longer.
We called. We visited as often as we could. But we couldn’t be there every day, and she knew it. That was the hardest part. Nobody had done anything wrong, and still there was a space in her week that phone calls couldn’t fill.