In a dimly lit Italian restaurant, not long after we received the terminal diagnosis for their son, I told my in-laws, Brian and Carol, that when Erik died, I couldn’t imagine being family anymore.
We’d already been through so much. At 35, I wasn’t supposed to lose my husband to a rare liver cancer or spend midnights in the antiseptic hush of his hospital room. Instead, I should have been eating tubs of ice cream with him at midnight, while carrying our first child. Or arguing over which shade of white we should paint our bathroom.
Any chance of salvaging my happiness, I thought, would require a clean break from his memory, including his family.
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Brian’s kind face was framed by a full sweep of silver hair, a young mop-top John Lennon meets the older, wiser Sam Waterston. When he looked up from his plate of pasta, his warm eyes flooded with tears. “I understand,” was all he said.
