My Irish Lessons In Grief

I was standing in a kitchen in Northern Ireland, baking chocolate muffins from a box, when I got the news that my husband's father had passed away. David and I had just learned the night before that his dad had untreatable cancer, and that it had gone undiagnosed for quite some time. We'd barely had time to process this news when a call came the very next morning informing us that his dad was in a coma. David jumped into a car with his mother and siblings, and they rushed off to the hospital.

I stayed behind at his parents' house so I could look after David's young nephew. The child would only agree to eat muffins, and I was anxiously rinsing mix from a bowl, awaiting an update. Then the text I had been dreading popped up on my phone. Just two words: "It's over."

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