Some days were harder than others.
Like when it snowed, or when she heard that song in her head again. If George looked at her in a certain way, she was gone. But she was healing, gradually.
She tried not to cry, because she was afraid that if she started she would never stop. She cried at the funeral and missed the whole thing. She didn't even remember how she got home, or the weeks after, really. It was all a blur.
Sometimes she forgot. It wasn't as often as before, but she still forgot. She would wake up, look next to her expecting to see him, and there was nothing. Then she would roll over and try again tomorrow, always wanting a result that she could never have.
At the beginning she tried praying to a God she wasn't sure she believed in, pleading for answers she could never have. Why? How do I go on? She wondered if this was all a test, if He was punishing her for her sins. She figured that must be it, or if not her- everyone. There was far too much tragedy in this house to be a coincidence. This family was cursed, whether it was because of her she did not know, but they were cursed somehow, and she feared it would never be broken.
She wondered how Tom did it. Of course he was a part of them now, but not by blood. It was different. She wondered what he did.
She used to just hear white noise when people talked to her. She couldn't stand being around anyone for a long while. There was sorrow all around her. Everyone apologized for what's happened, and everyone felt so sorry for her. There was so much misery surrounding her at all hours of the day and she couldn't escape, it no matter how hard she tried. Her parents, watching hopelessly as their daughter slipped farther and farther away from them. Her remaining sister, wanting to help but not knowing exactly how. It never ended. Edith never apologized for any of it, though, because she knew it wasn't needed or wanted. She appreciated that. But she could tell her sister still wanted to do something, anything, to ease the let her hug her at the funeral.
The trouble is he was so much more than just the love of her life. He was a friend to her sister, a son to Isobel and her parents, a confident to Tom, and a father. Or he would have been a father. A great one, probably. Much better than the mother she had to be now, without him. She wanted to be a good mother, really. She looked at George and saw him. But it was difficult, and so very painful, when the only person you wanted to talk to about your husband's death was your dead husband.