Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“Can you help me start a group chat?” I try to make the question sound casual as I slide the salad onto the kitchen table.
It’s my third attempt because apparently the first bowl was too rustic and the second one had a chip I couldn’t unsee.
This one is just right, arranged like something out of a food magazine, with the arugula fluffed and the tomatoes evenly spaced.
Harper has already set up the iPad, and I can see Matt giving me the side eye through the screen.
“I mean, I have managed the PTA newsletter for a decade, and I coordinated the neighborhood Christmas cookie exchange during a snowstorm,” I add quickly, as if my long history of clipboard excellence might shield me from digital ridicule.
“And no one has ever complained about my spreadsheets. Or my themed centerpieces. Not once.” I smooth an invisible wrinkle from the tablecloth.
“I’m very organized. Remember that art show at the rec center last spring?
For the kids in the after-school program?
We hung every piece like it belonged in the Met.
One little boy did this wild, blue-and-orange self-portrait that looked like early Picasso, if Picasso had used glue sticks and googly eyes.
It was magic.” And I’m rambling. It’s my dead giveaway when I’m nervous, and both of my kids know it.
Harper raises her eyebrows at her older brother, and they share an obvious look.
I rush to fill the silence once again. “It’s not a crazy question. It’s a group chat… thingy.”
“Mom, you’re the most put-together person I know.
Even after Dad died, you didn’t let the house go or miss a single nonprofit fundraising event.
” Matt takes a big bite of whatever protein bar is his pick of the week, chewing thoughtfully.
“But that is kind of a crazy question for you considering that you haven’t wanted to talk to any other human beings about anything grief related in the last two years and now you’re wondering about grief group chats. ”
“Matt! We should be encouraging her. She’s only fifty-one! Her whole life is still ahead of her.”
“Hey, young lady. Watch it. Forty-nine! Don’t age me before my time.”
Harper beams, and I’m sure if Matt wasn’t all the way across the country in Boston, she’d be elbowing his ribs.
“It’s all thanks to yours truly. I got Mom hooked up with a few social media accounts, and now she’s diving in deep to the grief groups.
Which group was it? My math professor swears you’d love the one he suggested for his mom. ”
“Wait? Your math professor knows about this?”
Harper shrugs, her long blonde braid swinging wild with the movement, before she stuffs a bite of salad into her mouth. “The point is, the grief groups are helping. You’re coming out of your shell.”
“I hardly think I was in a shell.” I point my salad fork in her direction. “I haven’t missed hosting a single Sunday family dinner.”
Matt chuckles, his brown eyes sparkling. “She has a point, Harper. The woman is a machine.”
“So, what group did you join?” Harper narrows her eyes.
“Um…” I try to stab a cherry tomato a little too hard, and it flies off my bowl and rolls onto the table. “It’s not exactly a group. Not a formal one. It’s more of a conversation.”
Harper’s eyebrows go up so high I worry they’ll disappear into her hairline. Matt leans in closer to the screen, squinting like he’s trying to read my soul through the pixels.
“Mom.” Harper’s voice drops low. “Are you telling us you joined a secret grief cult?”
“What? No!” I sputter. “It’s the magic of the internet, I guess. One minute you’re sobbing over a butterfly, the next you’re sharing trauma with two women you’ve never met in real life, bonding over furniture and knitting needles.”
Matt nearly chokes on his last bite of protein bar, his wavy blonde hair flopping into his eyes. “Please tell me ‘The Reclining Stitchers’ is the name of the group.”
“It’s not,” I mutter, focusing very hard on my salad. “But now I wish it were.”
“So what’s this non-group called?” Harper presses, her voice suspiciously sweet. She twirls her fork like she’s conducting an orchestra.
“It doesn’t really have a name,” I lie. Then wince. “Okay. It does. But I didn’t mean for it to be a thing. It just happened.”
“Mom.” Matt has mastered the all-knowing-big-brother tone.
“The Dead Husbands Society.”
Harper and Matt’s jaws both drop open, and I forge ahead.
“I didn’t set out to create a Dead Husbands Society.
Who dreams of something like that? Serial killers, maybe.
But not me.” I glance between my kids. “I spent twenty-six years dreaming about growing old with one man, only to find myself Googling, ‘Is twenty seven months too soon to make widow friends?’” I hold up a hand. “And guess what? There’s no rulebook.”
Harper’s fork freezes mid-air. “Did you say, ‘The Dead Husbands Society’?”
“It’s not like I printed t-shirts.” My voice sounds defensive, even to me. “Although now that I think of it, that could be kind of clever.”
Matt bursts out laughing. “You started the group?”
I shrug, trying not to look embarrassed. “Technically. I invited two women I met online. That’s it.”
“Oh my God,” Harper breathes. “You started your own widow gang.” She squeals and jumps up, wrapping her arms around my neck from behind. “I love it!”
“It’s not a gang,” I protest.
“Mom’s got internet friends. The plan is working!” Matt shakes his head, grinning. “Next thing we know, she’ll be running a grief podcast and asking us to smash that subscribe button.”
“Very funny.” I pretend there’s something fascinating to focus on in my salad bowl. “Look, it’s not what I expected. But they’re real. And it helps. More than any of those professional groups or casseroles from well-meaning neighbors.”
They both go quiet for a beat.
“Well,” Harper breaks the silence, beaming. “If you do print t-shirts, I want one. XL. Oversized widow-core.”
“Make that fifteen.” Matt flexes his bicep. “I could get my whole basketball team in on that. Solidarity. Grief gang for life.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. Maybe I didn’t dream of this, of widowing, or group chats, or finding new friends in strange digital spaces, but I’m healing. One day at a time. I’m healing.
______________
Marin: Today I cried over burnt toast. The irony is not lost on me.
Viv: What irony? Isn’t the saying, ‘crying over spilled milk.’
Marin: It doesn’t matter. The point is sourdough bread made me cry. Does this upgrade me to a new level of sad?
Viv: Depends. Was it an exceptionally beautiful piece of toast?
Marin: Viv. It isn’t about the toast. It’s about what it represents. The meaning behind the toast.
Viv: That’s ur problem right there. Burned toast really can’t handle that much pressure. Just let it be burned toast.
Me: I’m going recruiting today.
Marin: For what?
Me: For our group.
Viv: Where are u going? And why are you recruiting? I like our group.
Me: The funeral home. And because there might be other women like us who need support.
Marin: Oh, Birdie.
Viv: That’s the big leagues! u should start with nursing homes or water aerobics or literally anywhere less depressing.
Marin: Viv. For the love of all that is holy. Please write out the word “you.” I beg you. That poor vowel is sitting there, all alone.
Viv: That’s your problem, Birdie. You’re always looking for other people to focus on so you don’t have to focus on yourself.
Me: 1000% not a thing.
It’s definitely a thing.
Me: Wish me luck!
______________
I walk into Greenwood Memorial & Funeral Home, dressed in my blue blazer and carrying a stack of freshly printed flyers like I’m selling Girl Scout cookies instead of grief.
The guy at the front desk runs a hand through his thinning, brown hair before eyeing my flyers.
Judging by the look on his face, you’d think I was about to hand him a dead cat.
“Hi.” I give an awkward little wave with one hand while setting down my pile of flyers on the desk. “I was wondering if I could post this flyer for a support group I run?”
He blinks and doesn’t return my smile. “What kind of group?”
There’s a long pause while I wrack my mind for the mental script I’d prepared on the drive over here, because saying it to the rearview mirror in the car and saying it aloud at a funeral home are two entirely different things. “The Dead Husbands Society.”
His face tightens, like I just punched him in the soul.
The silence stretches, and my mind goes blank. In my desperation and panic to fill the awkwardness, I can’t remember my script. “I figured people come here after their spouse dies, and maybe they need support… or friends… or matching shirts?”
His voice is flat. “We don’t have a bulletin board.”
My years of trying to sell baked goods at school fundraising events kick in and I counter, “Well, do you make recommendations?”
“Yes. For florists. For grief counselors. Not… clubs.” He pushes a corner of one flyer to the side, and the sun filtering through the large window catches the copious amount of glitter I used to outline the letters. Damn it, Viv. More glitter doesn’t equal better.
I pivot. “I’ve been a stay-at-home mom for twenty-three years. My last big recruitment effort was getting people to volunteer for a bake sale. I’m a little rusty.” Then I tack on a forced laugh that falls flat in the silence between us.
He doesn’t join me.
Then, I swear, I black out for a second, not a medical blackout, simply a moment when my mouth keeps moving but my brain is on vacation.
Suddenly, I hear myself say, “It’s not just a club. It’s a safe place for women whose lives fell apart. For people who’ve stood next to a casket wondering if they should feel relief, or rage, or nothing at all. For those of us who are sick of casseroles and polite small talk!”
He stares at me like I’m unraveling right there in front of him. Which, honestly, I kind of am.
Then I add, “I didn’t mean to start it. One day I’m thinking that I’m healing, and then I’m sobbing in the park, and the next thing I know I’m trauma-bonding with two women I’ve never met on the internet over knitting patterns and furniture and yoga and Target.”
And then because I apparently have lost all people and recruiting skills, I add, “Have you ever lost someone?”
A long pause.
“My wife.”
Oh.
Panic strikes again, so I blurt, “Well, maybe you need a club.”
That’s when I realize I have to leave before I spontaneously combust, but not before I lose a few flyers off the top of the pile in my haste, leaving a trail of glitter in my wake.
______________
I relay the entire ordeal to our group chat, ending with:
So I thanked him, apologized, took my flyers, and walked out with the grace of a broken Roomba stuck under a couch.
Viv: it’s like a car crash. I can’t look away.
Me: I accidentally traumatized a man in a suit, implied he needs a support group, and learned that funeral homes don’t like fun clubs. So… progress?
Marin: I bet you made him cry. Like toast.
Viv: I’m making us shirts. Matching black ones. With glitter. Lots of glitter.
Marin: More glitter is not better, Viv. I think we established this with the flyers.
And for the first time in a long time, I laugh so hard I cry.
Or maybe I cry so hard, I laugh.
Either way, I don’t feel so alone.
There might be others like us out there, but for now, three feels like more than enough.