After our mom passed, Dad remarried quickly. His new wife pushed my younger sister out of our childhood home, but she didn’t expect what I’d do next.
Growing up, I used to think grief had a shape. For me, it looked like the leather armchair my mom used to curl up in after dinner, reading until her eyes drooped.
It looked like the chipped floral mug she refused to replace, or the laugh lines that deepened around her mouth when she sang along to old Sade records.
Now, at 30, I’ve learned that grief doesn’t have a shape. It’s a space, an empty one. And sometimes, someone else moves in and tries to redecorate it.
My name’s Britt.
I live about 20 minutes from the house I grew up in, close enough to stop by, but far enough that I don’t feel the silence in the hallways. I work in marketing, live with my rescue dog Olive, and take my coffee black ever since Mom passed. It’s the way she drank hers.
Little things like that feel like a rebellion against forgetting.
My little sister Emma, who’s 16, still lives with our dad. His name is Derek. He used to be the kind of guy who sang in the car and burned toast every Sunday while trying to make breakfast.
But ever since Mom died, he’s been… distant.
Six months after the funeral, my dad remarried. His new wife, Monica, is 35 and so polished she looks almost airbrushed in real life.
She gives off the vibe of someone who runs a boutique Pilates studio, drinks collagen smoothies for breakfast, and always seems mildly inconvenienced by anything emotional.
From the moment Monica moved in, it felt as though Mom had been erased from the story entirely. The family portraits vanished overnight, and the hand-sewn quilt that used to drape over the couch was suddenly gone. Every framed photo of Mom had been packed into a cardboard box and shoved into Emma’s room, treated like nothing more than sentimental clutter.
About a month in, Monica stood in the living room, her arms folded as if she were appraising the value of our memories.
“I think these family portraits need to go,” she said casually, like we were redecorating a rental.
“It’s depressing. We need fresh energy.”
Emma didn’t say anything that day. But a week later, she told me quietly over boba tea, her eyes fixed on the melting tapioca pearls at the bottom of her cup, “It’s like Mom never existed to them.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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