These are the stages of grief:
Or at least, so it is said. When I lost my daughter of the flesh, I learned that these stages are descriptive in the way that one might describe the ocean as wet. Helpful largely to those who stand on the shore, or perhaps half a continent away.
Just now I feel a fool. I, of all, should have known not to have believed in the promises. But after so long, I was worn down. So just now if I am angry, it is at myself.
I find I have a new respect for this husband and for others in my system. They keep their words. And so the winter turns to spring and even if the tree of love appeared bare of leaves, the buds come and it blooms.
Now I must decide if I must keep mine, and wait. My husbands did not do the courtesy to speak with me, at least not yet. I do not know where they stand on this decision of Lohr’s and Sassy’s. But their silence says much.
Some might call this denial, to wait. Some might call it honour. I am undecided.