Kate Didd

Day: 100

A little over a week ago, we got the call, my husband’s grandmother passed away.

And as much as I love a main character moment…
this wasn’t mine.

This wasn’t my grief.
This wasn’t my ache.

This was his.

And I stood there, quietly realizing something I didn’t expect, I don’t know how to carry someone else’s grief anymore.

Not because I don’t care…but because I’ve spent years screaming through my own.

Until one day… I didn’t have anything left to scream about. Somewhere along the way, grief loosened its grip on me. Not in a dramatic moment. Not in some cinematic release.

Just… slowly. Quietly.
Like fog lifting off water.

And what was left behind was acceptance.

But my kids?

They’ve known too many funerals.
Too many rooms filled with heavy air and whispered voices.
Too much chaos tied to loss.

So we made a choice.

We didn’t sit in it.

We moved.

We packed bags, grabbed the pieces of ourselves that still felt soft, and drove to Union Station in St. Louis, the trip we always said we’d take “someday.”

Someday came wrapped in grief.

And somehow… we turned it into light.

The hotel was overbooked, wedding weekend, laughter echoing through the halls, dresses brushing marble floors.

So they upgraded us.

And when the upgrade didn’t fit?
They gave us two rooms.

Two.

For the first time ever… we had space from our kids.

And instead of feeling distant, it felt like trust.

They were good. So good.
Not perfect, because siblings never are but kind, generous, gentle with each other in a way that told me something was shifting.

Healing doesn’t always announce itself.

Sometimes it just… shows up in the way your children laugh again.

That night, we dragged blankets and pillows out to the balcony.

Candy spilled between us.
Ice cream shakes sweating in our hands.
The city humming below.

And above us, the ceiling came alive.

Light poured across it in waves, color and motion and story after story stretching from 5 p.m. to 10.

Every show.

Every single one.

Because I’ve always wanted to sit there and watch them all.

So we did.

We didn’t rush.
We didn’t check the time.

We stayed.

We talked about dreams.
About the lives we’re building.
About the pieces of us still under construction.

Because aren’t we always becoming something new?

One by one, the kids faded, sleep pulling them back to their rooms, their bodies finally giving in after a day of running from nothing and toward everything.

And at the final show…
he wrapped his arms around me.

Held me like something steady.

Walked me back to our room with blankets tucked under his arm like we were carrying something sacred.

He kissed my forehead and said thank you, for helping him be the man he was that day.

And I felt it land.

Because I am hard on him sometimes.

But only because I see him.

All of him.

And I’ve believed in that man for twenty-five years.

The next day was motion.

Zip lines slicing through the air.
The aquarium glowing blue and endless.
Mirrors bending laughter into something uncontrollable.
Carousel spins, Ferris wheel views, trains circling, swings lifting us just high enough to feel weightless.

Again and again and again.

We rode until it felt like we squeezed every drop out of joy.

We rested.
Then went back out.

A storm rolled in and shut it all down, rides creaking to a stop, people scattering.

And when it passed?

We went right back like it was our job to have a good goddamn time.

Because it was.

And that’s when I saw it.

My kids aren’t just surviving anymore.

They’re living.

The storm they never asked for?

We’re not in the middle of it anymore.

We made it through.

Then came the funeral.

Seven years.

Seven years since I’ve stood in a room with most of those people.

The air felt different walking in, thick with history, with things said and unsaid.

Measured steps. Careful glances.

Chess, not checkers.

My mother-in-law approached first, grieving daughter, grieving mother, complicated woman carrying her own contradictions.

She thanked him.
Told my daughter she was beautiful.
Touched my boys gently, like she understood boundaries now.

And then she came to me.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I told her.

And I meant it.

Because grief doesn’t disappear just because someone caused pain.

Then she leaned in.

And she apologized.

Quiet. Direct. No performance.

The kind of apology you don’t celebrate, you watch.

Because I’ve learned something simple in this life:

Your words and your actions either match…
or they don’t.

And that’s all I need to know about you.

Inside the church, we sat alone.

Just the five of us.

While the rest gathered together in tight rows, needing each other in ways I no longer do.

And for the first time…

I didn’t feel small because of it.

I felt grounded.

The songs started, familiar melodies I’ve sung for my own dead.

So I sang again.

For her.
For my mother.
For every version of grief I’ve ever carried.

And instead of breaking,

I felt calm.

No shaking.
No unraveling.

Just… grace.

Afterward, we tried to slip away quietly.

But I saw her in the rearview mirror, running toward the car.

And I said, “Don’t drive away.”

Because no matter what’s happened, mother to mother, that moment matters.

So I met her there.

No armor. No performance.

Just truth.

“This is a lot for us. We don’t live like this anymore. It’s just the five of us.”

And for once…

That was enough.

The rest of the day followed that same rhythm.

People telling me they missed me.
Asking where I’ve been.

And instead of handing them pieces of my life they no longer get access to, I smiled softly and said:

“It’s nice to be missed.”

And kept moving.

Graceful.
Clean.
Final.

By the end of it all, I understood something I didn’t have words for before:

Grief doesn’t look the same twice.

Not between people.
Not between moments.
Not even within yourself.

And healing?

It’s quieter than we think.

It looks like children laughing under neon lights.
Like choosing joy in the middle of loss.
Like standing in a room that once broke you and realizing it doesn’t anymore.

It looks like building a life so steady, so intentional…
that nothing outside of it gets to shake it.

I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

But more than that…

I trust the woman I am now
to carry whatever comes next.