ThisIsUs: STOP. That was me. I am the woman from Target. Just kidding. But now I wish I was. I would've let you keep the dog.
Me: Honestly I would’ve taken her. I’m tired of feeling alone. Some days I feel I’m moving forward and other days I feel like I’m starting all over again.
ThisIsUs: I hugged my throw pillow so hard last week it popped a seam. My grief is literally spilling out. But then I stuff it back inside and remind it that everything feels better after yoga and some heart alignment.
Me: You’re funny. I forgot that laughing and crying could live in the same sentence.
ThisIsUs: That’s the secret. Laughter is the grief buoy. Grab it whenever you can.
We go back and forth for a while, swapping dark-humored grief stories like war veterans trading battle scars. It's like talking to someone who’s been through hell and came back with glitter under her nails. It’s the first conversation I’ve had in months that doesn’t feel like small talk wrapped in pity.
The sun dipped behind the skyline hours ago and the rumbling of my stomach reminds me it’s past time to get some dinner.
I’m about to close the app and maybe even consider watching something that doesn’t involve true crime or weeping British detectives when I see another notification.
BooksAndYarn: Thank you. I was terrible at knitting at first. You just have to start.
Simple.
I stare at the message for a long time before inhaling. I just had a perfectly wonderful conversation with a stranger on the internet.
I can do this.
The tightness in my chest loosens slightly. Something shifts inside me, not a miracle, not healing, but a flicker of warmth. A door opening, just a sliver.
And before I can talk myself out of it, I message her the same question:
Hi. I’m Birdie. I don’t know what I’m doing. Can we be friends?
BookAndYarn: Hi, Birdie. I’m Marin. I’d like that.
Chapter Three
“Can you help me start a group chat?” I try to make the question sound casual as I slide the salad onto the kitchen table. It’s my third attempt because apparently the first bowl was too rustic and the second one had a chip I couldn’t unsee. This one is just right, arranged like something out of a food magazine, with the arugula fluffed and the tomatoes evenly spaced.
Harper has already set up the iPad, and I can see Matt giving me the side eye through the screen.
“I mean, I have managed the PTA newsletter for a decade, and I coordinated the neighborhood Christmas cookie exchange during a snowstorm,” I add quickly, as if my long history of clipboard excellence might shield me from digital ridicule. “And no one has ever complained about my spreadsheets. Or my themed centerpieces. Not once.” I smooth an invisible wrinkle from the tablecloth. “I’m very organized. Remember that art show at the rec center last spring? For the kids in the after-school program? We hung every piece like it belonged in the Met. One little boy did this wild, blue-and-orange self-portrait that looked like early Picasso, if Picasso had used glue sticks and googly eyes. It was magic.” And I’m rambling. It’s my dead giveaway when I’m nervous, and both of my kids know it.
Harper raises her eyebrows at her older brother, and they share an obvious look.
I rush to fill the silence once again. “It’s not a crazy question. It’s a group chat… thingy.”
“Mom, you’re the most put-together person I know. Even after Dad died, you didn’t let the house go or miss a single nonprofit fundraising event.” Matt takes a big bite of whatever protein bar is his pick of the week, chewing thoughtfully. “But that is kind of a crazy question for you considering that you haven’t wanted to talk to any other human beings about anything grief related in the last two years and now you’re wondering about grief group chats.”
“Matt! We should be encouraging her. She’s only fifty-one! Her whole life is still ahead of her.”
“Hey, young lady. Watch it. Forty-nine! Don’t age me before my time.”
Harper beams, and I’m sure if Matt wasn’t all the way across the country in Boston, she’d be elbowing his ribs. “It’s all thanks to yours truly. I got Mom hooked up with a few social media accounts, and now she’s diving in deep to the grief groups. Which group was it? My math professor swears you’d love the one he suggested for his mom.”
“Wait? Your math professor knows about this?”
Harper shrugs, her long blonde braid swinging wild with the movement, before she stuffs a bite of salad into her mouth. “The point is, the grief groups are helping. You’re coming out of your shell.”
“I hardly think I was in a shell.” I point my salad fork in her direction. “I haven’t missed hosting a single Sunday family dinner.”
Matt chuckles, his brown eyes sparkling. “She has a point, Harper. The woman is a machine.”
