Grief doesn’t move in straight lines.
It lingers in doorways.
It hides in drawers.
It waits in quiet rooms you avoid walking into.
For two years after my husband died, I couldn’t bring myself to open the garage.
From the outside, it looked ordinary — just another suburban garage with stacked boxes and old tools. But to me, it felt like a sealed time capsule. Everything inside belonged to a version of life that no longer existed.
I told myself I wasn’t ready.
And maybe I wasn’t.
