Nothing out of place or disturbed.
I stepped fully inside and let my gaze move slowly across the racks.
Casual, everyday clothes lined one side. Soft sweaters. Denim pants. Summer dresses.
On the other end hung the gowns. The couture pieces her family’s famous designer friends had sent over for galas andopenings and charity events. Structured silhouettes. Beaded fabric that caught the light even now.
And so many shoes and bags.
The room still smelled faintly of her perfume.
Which was my fault since there had been nights over the past two years when I’d come in here, picked up one of the bottles on her vanity shelf, and sprayed it into the air just to sit and breathe her in. To remember.
I didn’t know what that said about me or where I was in the grief process. Whether it meant I was healing, or stuck, or something in between.
I hadn’t seen my therapist in several months since I’d stopped scheduling the appointments.
Not because I thought I was healed. I knew better than that. Grief didn’t exactly wrap itself up with a bow.
It just… softened. Shifted. Hid in corners.
A single scent. A word. A song in a grocery store aisle. Any of it could still pull me under without warning.
Just like last night.
When I’d walked Amanda to my car after dinner and she’d slipped her hand into mine like it was the most natural thing in the world… it had taken everything in me not to have a full-blown panic attack as my chest tightened and my brain scrambled.
Not because I didn’t like her. But because my body hadn’t known what to do with the familiarity of a feminine hand in mine. The muscle memory.
Yeah. I’m definitely on a healing path of my own.
At least I’d managed to keepsomeof my composure in that panic-filled moment. Managed to open the car door for her like a normal adult man.
And thankfully, since we’d both needed to pick up our kids at Romeo and Lia’s place, I hadn’t had to navigate thewhole doorstep scene and any overwhelming feelings it might bring.
I exhaled slowly and reached for the sleeve of Alisha’s fuzzy soft pink robe hanging on a hook at the end of the rack.
It was what she’d worn for all the late-night feedings. The sleep-deprived mornings. The early hours when Charlotte had been tiny and loud and perfect.
The fabric was still unbelievably soft beneath my fingers.
A lump formed in my throat before I could stop it.
She had been such a good mom.
Patient. Warm. Natural in a way that had always amazed me.
So much better suited for it than I had been.
And yet, Charlotte would never remember any of it. Wouldn’t remember her mom the way I did. She’d only know her mom through the stories I told. The photos on the walls. The way she looked in the videos on my phone.
I should have filmed everything. Captured and treasured every single moment.
I swallowed hard and closed my eyes, letting the grief and regret wash over me.
I’d at least learned that much in therapy. To allow my body to feel all the emotions instead of just shoving them down and locking them in a hidden corner of my chest to feel some other day.
So, I stood there and let the ache and longing and unfairness of it all course over me.