Her daughter Claire was thirty-three and lived two hours north with her husband Marcus. Claire carried her grief differently—vocal, kept Daniel’s photo on her work desk and talked about him easily at dinner. Helen carried hers inward. The two of them had never quite grieved the same way, but had always been each other’s shelter regardless.
For six years after Daniel died, Helen hadn’t wanted anyone. Then Richard came along at a dinner party she’d almost cancelled, hosted by a mutual friend who meant well. He was a retired civil engineer—calm, unhurried, with a dry sense of humour that crept up on her. He hadn’t tried to fix her or cheer her up, but simply sat with her grief.