She was practical. The love of her life had just died and she was scrubbing away at the bathroom wall, the tears streaming, and balancing her newly three year old daughter on her hip, and her one year old son in the rocker on the floor. Her hair was knotted and she was still in her pyjamas, her mascara had run, yet all she cared about was how clean the wall was. She couldn't hear the screams and protests of the little one beside her, screaming for her daddy. All she needed to do was clean the freakin' wall.
She didn't know how. She didn't want to know. All she knew was that he hadn't returned after his night out with some friends. She knew she woke up in an empty bed. She knew that the someone who knocked on her door was important. She knew he was dead. Just by the look on his face, sorrow, sympathy... pity. She didn't want pity. She'd had pity when Ted died. It never helped.
All she remembered after -that- knock on the door, was the muffled apology and explanation. She collapsed. She cried... no... she wailed. They'd been through so much together... Everything, for him.
And now he was gone.
The wall had to be cleaned.