“So, what group did you join?” Harper narrows her eyes.
“Um…” I try to stab a cherry tomato a little too hard, and it flies off my bowl and rolls onto the table. “It’s not exactly a group. Not a formal one. It’s more of a conversation.”
Harper’s eyebrows go up so high I worry they’ll disappear into her hairline. Matt leans in closer to the screen, squinting like he’s trying to read my soul through the pixels.
“Mom.” Harper’s voice drops low. “Are you telling us you joined a secret grief cult?”
“What? No!” I sputter. “It’s the magic of the internet, I guess. One minute you’re sobbing over a butterfly, the next you’re sharing trauma with two women you’ve never met in real life, bonding over furniture and knitting needles.”
Matt nearly chokes on his last bite of protein bar, his wavy blonde hair flopping into his eyes. “Please tell me ‘The Reclining Stitchers’ is the name of the group.”
“It’s not,” I mutter, focusing very hard on my salad. “But now I wish it were.”
“So what’s this non-group called?” Harper presses, her voice suspiciously sweet. She twirls her fork like she’s conducting an orchestra.
“It doesn’t really have a name,” I lie. Then wince. “Okay. It does. But I didn’t mean for it to be a thing. It just happened.”
“Mom.” Matt has mastered the all-knowing-big-brother tone.
“The Dead Husbands Society.”
Harper and Matt’s jaws both drop open, and I forge ahead. “I didn’t set out to create a Dead Husbands Society. Who dreams of something like that? Serial killers, maybe. But not me.” I glance between my kids. “I spent twenty-six years dreaming about growing old with one man, only to find myself Googling, ‘Is twenty seven months too soon to make widow friends?’” I hold up a hand. “And guess what? There’s no rulebook.”
Harper’s fork freezes mid-air. “Did you say, ‘The Dead Husbands Society’?”
“It’s not like I printed t-shirts.” My voice sounds defensive, even to me. “Although now that I think of it, that could be kind of clever.”
Matt bursts out laughing. “You started the group?”
I shrug, trying not to look embarrassed. “Technically. I invited two women I met online. That’s it.”
“Oh my God,” Harper breathes. “You started your own widow gang.” She squeals and jumps up, wrapping her arms around my neck from behind. “I love it!”
“It’s not a gang,” I protest.
“Mom’s got internet friends. The plan is working!” Matt shakes his head, grinning. “Next thing we know, she’ll be running a grief podcast and asking us to smash that subscribe button.”
“Very funny.” I pretend there’s something fascinating to focus on in my salad bowl. “Look, it’s not what I expected. But they’re real. And it helps. More than any of those professional groups or casseroles from well-meaning neighbors.”
They both go quiet for a beat.
“Well,” Harper breaks the silence, beaming. “If you do print t-shirts, I want one. XL. Oversized widow-core.”
“Make that fifteen.” Matt flexes his bicep. “I could get my whole basketball team in on that. Solidarity. Grief gang for life.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. Maybe I didn’t dream of this, of widowing, or group chats, or finding new friends in strange digital spaces, but I’m healing. One day at a time. I’m healing.
______________
Marin: Today I cried over burnt toast. The irony is not lost on me.
Viv: What irony? Isn’t the saying, ‘crying over spilled milk.’
Marin: It doesn’t matter. The point is sourdough bread made me cry. Does this upgrade me to a new level of sad?
Viv: Depends. Was it an exceptionally beautiful piece of toast?
Marin: Viv. It isn’t about the toast. It’s about what it represents. The meaning behind the toast.
