Annie Graham stood at her kitchen sink, staring at the same chipped mug she'd used every morning since Steve died. The mug read "WORLD'S OKAYEST MOM," a gag gift from Charlie before she… before everything. She used to find it funny. Now it just felt like a taunt.
The house was quiet, too quiet. No humming fridge, no creaky floorboards from someone moving upstairs. Even the ghosts, if there were any left, seemed to have given up on her.
She didn't notice Peter standing in the doorway until he cleared his throat.
"Mom?"
Annie jumped, sloshing coffee on her wrist. "Jesus, Peter. You scared me."
"Sorry." He stood stiffly, hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. His voice was low, wary. "Can we… talk?"
Annie tilted her head. "That's usually the preamble to something terrible."
Peter didn't laugh. "I think you should get a divorce."
She blinked. "What?"
"You and Dad. You should get a divorce."
Annie set the mug down carefully. "Peter… your father's dead."
"I meant from him," Peter said, pointing vaguely upward. "From the memory. From the life. From whatever… that was."
She stared at him, mouth slightly open. "I'm sorry, what does that mean?"
Peter took a breath. "I mean you've been married to a ghost. Ever since it all happened. You talk about Dad like he's still here, you still sleep on one side of the bed, and you make dinner for two when it's just you. And I know I'm not always easy to be around—"
"That's putting it mildly," Annie muttered.
"—but I think you need to stop pretending. Like you're still in that life. You're not. It's gone. He's gone. I just think… maybe you need to really let go. File the paperwork. Say it out loud. Get a divorce."
Annie stared at him, her expression unreadable.
"Peter," she said slowly, "Do you know what you're asking me to do?"
"I think I do," he said. "You always used to say closure was a myth. That we just have to live with our grief. I think this is you… living with it. For real."
Annie didn't reply. She just picked up the mug again, as if it might answer for her.
Forty-five days later, Annie was standing in the middle of her cousin Denise's backyard, holding a plate of slightly too-dry lasagna and a paper cup of sangria. Folding tables surrounded her, draped in dollar-store tablecloths and sprinkled with mismatched party favors. The kind of family gathering where everyone acts like things are fine while casually ignoring every tragedy in the room.
"Aunt Annie!" chirped Denise's daughter Chloe, thirteen and deeply invested in everyone's business. "Where's Uncle Steve?"
The question landed like a thud.
A few heads turned.
Annie inhaled through her nose. "I'm filing for divorce."
There was a collective blink, followed by the sound of Denise's fork clinking loudly against her plate.
"Wait… what?" someone whispered.
"But he's… you know…" Chloe trailed off.
"Dead? Yes. And still, somehow, not gone." Annie gave a thin smile. "Divorce papers are symbolic. Or maybe just practical. Maybe both. But I filed. So."
Silence.
Then someone cleared their throat and asked about the pasta salad.
Annie took a long sip of sangria.
Two months later, Annie sat in a beige courtroom under flickering fluorescent lights while a judge—who looked vaguely like a middle-school gym teacher—stamped the final page of her paperwork.
"That's it?" she asked.
"That's it," the judge replied, not looking up.
Annie signed the line. Filed the pen back in her purse. Walked outside into the blinding sunlight.
She didn't cry.
She didn't float.
She just breathed.
Meanwhile, across town, Peter sat on the edge of his dorm bed, staring at a text message from his mom.
Annie:
"Divorce finalized today. It's done."
Peter reread the message five times. He thought he'd feel relief. But all he felt was… emptier.
He didn't answer right away.
Didn't know how to say, I didn't mean for you to do it. I meant for you to wake up. To get better. To come back.
Didn't know how to say, I wanted you to let go of the grief, not the love.
Didn't know how to say, I miss him too. I miss you. Even the version of you that kept trying to stitch the family back together with duct tape and paint fumes and denial.
Instead, he stared at the screen until it dimmed.
Weeks later, Annie visited the old treehouse, now cleaned out and stripped bare. No candles, no cult symbols. Just a couple of empty chairs and a dusty telescope.
She sat in the corner, folding her legs under her.
"Hi," she said aloud, unsure who she was addressing.
"I guess I did it," she continued. "Divorced you. Thought it might make me feel lighter. It didn't. But… it didn't crush me either. So maybe that's something."
The wind stirred the leaves outside.
"I think Peter's still angry. Or confused. Or both. But I don't blame him. I said a lot of awful things. Did some worse ones. He's allowed."
She tilted her head upward.
"You never said goodbye. I never got to be mad at you for leaving me with all of this. So I'm saying it now. Goodbye, Steve. You were a decent man who kept loving a woman falling apart. And I loved you, in my own chaotic, broken way. But I can't keep living with your ghost."
She stood.
Then paused.
"I hope you forgive me. And I hope you're somewhere quiet."
Peter eventually visited her. Months later. Around Thanksgiving. He stood on her doorstep with a bag of groceries and too much guilt in his eyes.
"I brought sweet potatoes," he said.
"I hate sweet potatoes."
"I know. But Dad loved them."
Annie gave a soft laugh. "You trying to guilt me back into grief?"
"No," Peter said. "Just… trying to say I get it. Now. What you were doing. With the divorce."
Annie stepped aside. "Come in. We'll argue about stuffing instead."
And they did.
Later that night, as they both dozed on the couch watching an old movie Steve used to hate, Peter said quietly, "I think he would've understood."
"I hope so," Annie whispered.
Neither of them moved for a long time.
Outside, the wind rustled the trees.
Inside, mother and son sat in the warm, fragile quiet of what was left—what could still be rebuilt.