Epilogue
The screen flickers to life, and there they are—Viv sipping what I assume is some frothy soy milk abomination and Marin with her kombucha.
It’s clear. She’s hooked on the stuff. My Wi-Fi is a little glitchy, the images are a little blurry, and the sound cuts out every few seconds, but honestly? It feels like home.
I give Noah a quick peck on the cheek before moving my laptop off the bed and padding in my pajamas down the hall toward the living room.
“Is that Noah?” Viv’s voice breaks out through the speaker loud and clear. “Tell him I’m not there to toss him his jeans if he forgets them while trying to crawl out onto the roof again.”
I hear Noah’s deep chuckle from the bed. “Hi, Viv. No more sneaking out of windows for me for a while.”
Settling into my favorite corner of the couch, I adjust the screen in time to see Viv stare pointedly through the screen. “Someone really needs to ask Marin about her love life.”
“No one needs to ask.” Marin’s voice is serious, but she’s smiling.
Viv ignores her. “He flosses, Birdie. Unprompted. I almost proposed on the spot.”
“You say that like it’s not the bare minimum,” I chuckle.
“Sweetheart.” Viv swirls her coffee like it’s wine. “Believe me, flossing is not the bare minimum. We’re in the past forty club. The bare minimums have changed.”
I shudder and write myself a mental note to thank Noah for his good dental hygiene habits later.
Marin snorts. “He also owns real bedsheets. Not polyester. I checked the tag.”
Viv winks. “Thread count is foreplay now.”
We all burst out laughing.
“Also, your daughter is quite the love guru.”
“Harper?” It comes out as a question that I’m a little scared to get the answer to.
“She’s terrifying,” Marin says immediately. “She’s already texted me twice with dating suggestions.”
Viv nods solemnly. “Yesterday, she told Marin to ‘trust her womb wisdom.’”
I choke on my tea. “Her what?”
Marin throws up her hands. “Apparently, my dusty old uterus has more insight into my love life than my brain does.”
Viv’s voice turns serious. “That’s the best advice anyone could ever give. Your body knows.”
“She actually said something that stuck with me,” Marin adds quietly. “That maybe it’s not about finding someone who fills the space they left. Just someone who reminds you that you still deserve to take up space, period.”
I blink at her. “Harper said that?”
“She texted it. In lowercase. No punctuation. But yeah.”
Viv nods. “That girl’s an old soul in a Gen Z wrapper.” Then she’s waving a perfectly manicured hand and adding, “And I did it. I posted a video last week, me, in full face, dancing to a Lizzo song with my wine glass, and guess what’s not in the background?”
Marin lifts an eyebrow. “A tragic montage of your dead husband?”
Viv’s grin holds only 10% sadness. “Exactly. No candlelit tribute corner. No black-and-white slow-mo. No cut of him dancing with me. Just me. Laughing. Being ridiculous. I didn’t even mention him. And I finally changed my username.”
I raise my eyebrows. “No more ThisIsUs?”
“Nope. Now it’s ThisIsMe.”
“Wow.” I set my cup down. “How did that feel?”
“Sad, but also weirdly good. Like I’m allowed to take up space again without wrapping everything in a grief bow first. Like I’m still me, even if I’m not us anymore.
I even signed up for my pole dancing class, and because of all your nagging, I am looking into the possibility of apartments in the Seattle area. ”
Marin and I let out a few squeals. “Join me! My move-in date is next week and finding a decent apartment wasn’t that bad.”
Viv stares before quirking an eyebrow. “Don’t lie to me, lady. It was awful, and we both know it, but you were fueled by love… or lust.”
Marin’s face turns a thousand shades of red.
Then I take a breath. “I’ve been thinking about something.”
Viv pauses. “Always dangerous.”
“What if we didn’t stop? The dares, I mean. What if we kept going? Made new ones. Not because we’re broken or grieving or healing from loss, but because life doesn’t stop asking us to be brave.”
Marin leans in. “You mean like make this a thing?”
“Not like a brand or a business. A way to keep showing up. For ourselves. For each other.”
Viv grins. “Birdie, that’s not only a good idea. That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? When are we ever really done daring ourselves to live fuller, deeper lives?”
“I mean, we dared each other to get out of bed and into the world again.” Marin sets down her knitting needles.
“What’s next? Daring each other to write a poem?
Take a pottery class? Start a business? Actually take the full-time position at the museum?
” Marin shoots me a pointed look. The internship was everything I imagined and I excelled.
So much so that they offered me a permanent place on the team.
“I have been wanting to get into vegan cupcakes.” Viv pauses as though she’s already pondering the logistics of such a venture. “Not that I don’t love my work as a yoga instructor, but moving to Seattle and starting a business is always a possibility.”
“I’m in.” Marin raises her kombucha-filled mug. “To grief dares and life dares and making a little magic out of our mess.”
“To more,” I echo. “Always to more.”
____________
@GinnyHotFlash1945 Please gather Betsy and Helen. (I even found a coupon for half off a pair of Birkenstocks, so Betsy won’t be too disappointed.) Your Reddit post, and two friends I didn’t know I needed, kind of changed my life. Or at least helped me see it wasn’t over.
This is for you. And maybe someone else too.
Post Title: The Dead Husbands Society Grief Dares (Inspired by The Romance Checklist)
Hi.
This is Birdie.
This post is inspired by The Romance Checklist by Helen, Betsy, and Ginny—three women with sharper minds and dirtier jokes than anyone is giving them credit for.
The Dead Husband Society and I wrapped up something we called the Grief Dare Challenge.
Well, wrapped up is generous. Because grief doesn’t end, it shifts.
It softens. Sometimes it ambushes you in the freezer aisle because you saw his favorite frozen waffles.
But it doesn’t go away. And maybe it’s not supposed to.
Helen, Betsy, and Ginny changed their main gal’s life with a romance checklist. While I needed a list, it wasn’t a checklist. We’re perimenopausal women. We needed a list of dares:
→ Tell the truth.
→ Do something scary.
→ Wear red lipstick to the post office.
→ Say his name without crying.
→ Laugh.
→ Flirt.
→ Let someone hold your hand.
→ Let yourself be happy, even if it’s only for five minutes.
What’s the Dead Husband Society? It’s nothing fancy.
Just three middle-aged women whose husbands died too soon and who realized they might have lost themselves long before that.
We met online. We bonded over grief. We stayed for the healing, and the snort-laughs, and the group texts where Viv tried to convince us to get matching tattoos. (Still pending.)
Here’s the thing: we got tired.
Tired of guilt.
Tired of walking around like love was a museum we weren’t allowed to touch anymore.
Tired of being scared of wanting anything more than survival.
So we dared each other to start small.
My first dare? Let the mailman trim my garden hedge. (No, not a euphemism. Though, in hindsight…)
Your first dare might be:
→ Make breakfast and eat it while sitting down.
→ Wear the earrings he bought you.
→ Call the friend you’ve been avoiding.
→ Let someone see your messy house, and your messy heart.
If you want to see our dare lists for inspiration, we’ll share them. But your dares won’t be ours. And your life? It’s yours. That means you get to decide how to hold it, and how to let in joy and sadness alongside it.
So if you’re stuck in grief. Or perimenopause. Or a chapter of your life that you didn’t ask for, but you’re reading through anyway, here’s our invitation:
Dare yourself to live a little louder. Write the dare list.
You’re not done.
You’re beginning again.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going back to snuggle up next to a man I love—without any guilt. Because healing doesn’t mean forgetting. And it’s okay to be happy.
– Birdie (founding member of The Dead Husband’s Society, recent griever, future joy-darer)