Grief and Groceries
I haven’t laid eyes on him in a month. And somehow, it feels like no time has passed, and a thousand lifetimes have.
Brooks stands in the kitchen totally in shock. His hair is longer now, the ends curling gently at his neck. He’s grown a short beard. Not unkempt, just enough to make him look older, weathered. Like someone who’s been shouldering the weight of a world I left behind.
"You… uh… home." He coughs, like the word got stuck on the way out.
"I did come home," I say, my voice quiet. Careful.
"Permanently?" His tone is cautious, like the answer might burn.
I nod. "Yes. Permanently."
He shifts his weight and takes a step back, like he needs space to recalibrate. I can’t tell if it’s relief softening his jaw or something else. Hesitation, maybe. Fear.
"I thought long and hard—"
But I don’t finish the sentence. Because down the hall, a door creaks open.
Brooks tenses in front of me, and we both instinctively move toward the sound.
Mom.
She stands there like a faded photograph—gaunt, pale, still wearing the same shirt she had on when I left. Dad’s flannel. The one she clung to like it was the only part of him still real. Her hair is piled on top of her head, brittle and unwashed. Her shoulders slope like even gravity has given up on holding her together.
"Mom?" I whisper, barely able to get the word out.
She blinks slowly, like she’s seeing us from underwater. "We need groceries, Elowen. Can you go to the store and get some?"
I swallow the lump in my throat. "Yes."
She nods and disappears again, the door closing with a soft but final click behind her.
Silence.
For a moment, neither of us breathes.
Then Brooks says quietly, "She hasn’t left the room in three days. And before that, she didn’t come out for two weeks."
My heart sinks. She’s still unraveling, and I wasn’t here to stop it.
I rub my arms, suddenly chilled. "Can you, uh, drive me to the store?"
His gaze lifts to meet mine. For a second, something flickers there. Something I used to recognize. His eyes are softer now. Not angry. Just… tired. "Yeah."
I nod slowly. "I need to buy a car soon."
Brooks lets out the faintest breath, like maybe he’d been holding one. "I’ll drive you, Ellie," he says, gentle but distant. Like it’s just a favor. Like we’re just two people in the same house.
I open my mouth to say something more, something honest. But I don’t.
"Okay," I say instead.
The drive to the grocery store is quiet. Not comfortable quiet,awkwardquiet. It hums just beneath my skin and makes me hyper-aware of every blink, every breath, every street sign we pass.
Brooks keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other draped across his lap. He doesn’t say anything. Not a joke, not a sigh, not a single glance in my direction.
I can’t think of a damn thing to say either.
