After saying goodbye to my grandma, I went back to her house to collect the last of her things. My husband was impatient, practically PUSHING me to sell the place. “We …

The day my grandmother died, something in my world shifted—quietly, almost imperceptibly at first—until the shift became an undeniable fracture running straight through my marriage.

I’m Mira, thirty-six years old, living just outside Portland in one of those calm, postcard neighborhoods where you can predict who’s walking their dog at what hour. People tend to assume a lot when they see a tidy house, healthy kids, and a decent marriage. They assume stability. Love. Security. And for a long time, I assumed the same.

My husband, Paul, and I had been married seven years. On the surface, he was reliable, polished, composed—exactly the kind of man who looked like he had his life in order. Our twin girls, Ellie and June, adored him. And most days, watching him carry them to bed after our mandatory Friday movie night, I would’ve sworn I adored him too.

But grief has a way of stripping varnish off everything.

Continue reading…