One Way Or Another
The fluorescent lights in the grocery store washed out everything, as if the world had been scrubbed raw. I kept shopping as grief hummed quietly. Mason was at school, granting me three hours of borrowed calm and a single mission. Easter was coming. The class flyer, stapled to his backpack, felt like a cheerful threat. He’d said, “Mommy, I need eggs,” in the same tone he used for snacks.
Liam would’ve handled it. On Easter, he’d wake early, slip from bed, and return smelling like cinnamon rolls and cold air, grinning like he’d pulled off something impossible. He’d whisper, “I’ve got it, baby.”
He hid eggs as if setting a perimeter, then acted indifferent when Mason squealed and sprinted. He’d add a ridiculous surprise, like a stuffed bunny bigger than our son, just to make him laugh. I’d roll my eyes at the mess, watching from the kitchen, thinking he was the best thing to happen to our quiet life. Now, the quiet felt like punishment.
Killed in action. My body still rejected those words. They said he died a hero, they emphasized. The words sounded official but unreal. A uniformed officer stood in my living room, holding a folded flag, as if it might break. I nodded like a well-mannered stranger in my own house. Afterward, the quiet rushed in, filling places Liam once brightened with dumb jokes. It has been the longest few months since that day.
I stopped at the seasonal aisle, staring at an Easter display. My hands clenched, knuckles aching, while pastel baskets with shiny handles lined the shelves. Plastic grass spilled from boxes like confetti, and chocolate bunnies sat smug in their gold wrappers. My breath quickened as a memory of Liam flashed; he’d have bought two just for Mason. Grief surged; my throat tightened so sharply I nearly coughed, but I swallowed it. I forced myself back to the task, refusing to let grief rob my kid again.
I pulled my phone out and opened the notes app. I’d written the plan. Eggs. Dye. Candy. Basket. It looked simple until I looked at the next line, the one that mattered more. Budget: $18.00! I stared at the number, hoping it might change out of pity.
Eighteen dollars wasn’t a holiday. It was convenience-store coffee and half a tank of gas, if careless, or a miracle if careful. Mason didn’t need expensive things to feel loved. Still, I hated how money became the villain in our story.
I bent for the cheapest egg-dye kit on the bottom shelf. The expensive ones? Obviously, it was for people with better lives. The box was dented, had fewer colors, but it would work. That mattered. I ran my thumb over the corner, trying to smooth it. Liam’s voice popped in, warm and teasing, saying Mason only cared if the eggs dyed his fingers blue. My eyes stung, and I blinked tightly before anyone could see.
I moved down the aisle toward the candy. At first, I tried to focus on my list. Mason loved small chocolate bunnies and would announce them as official Easter rabbits, as if certifying the season. A remembered image of Liam playing along made me smile; for a fleeting second, hope returned. But as my hand reached for the smallest foil bunny, the smile faded. A hollow ache slid in, my thoughts shifting to guilt and bitterness, reminding me that wanting more for Mason stirred feelings of failure and loss. I gripped the handle, trying to steady myself against the mix of missing and wishing.
Nearby, a woman laughed into her phone. It was the kind of easy laugh I remembered. I didn’t envy her, just her ability to enjoy joy. I looked at my cart, picturing it through Liam’s eyes. My chest squeezed with something mean and tender. He would’ve made this fun, even the counting, insisting we were fine, as if ‘fine’ were a promise he could keep.
My phone rang, jarring me out of my spiraling thoughts. For a split second, hope shot up, irrational and sharp, and I wanted to see Liam’s name on the screen. But reality set in; it was just Cole, my neighbor, with a simple text offering to pick up Mason. Relief and disappointment collided, stirring the ache of absence and the comfort of connection. Cole’s message wasn’t laced with pity, just steady help. As I read it, a softer relief settled: I was not as alone as I feared.
Cole showed up without demanding attention. He shoveled my walk this winter without knocking, fixed Mason’s bike chain in the driveway, always quiet and patient, never making me feel like I owed him. I told myself he was just kind, because the alternative, that he cared, was too heavy to hold. People who cared never seemed to last. I couldn’t bear to test that.
I started typing, ‘I’ve got it,’ pride reflexively rising, then deleted it. That answer wouldn’t help my kid. I wrote, ‘Yes, please.’ My thumb paused. I sent it. Relief hit, it was dizzying. I hated needing help, but Cole made it feel less like a need.
As I turned to check out, I saw someone unexpected. In our small grocery store, he stood near the greeting cards, tall, broad-shouldered, hair cut in the way the Army never lets you forget. For a moment, my brain refused to place him, as if protecting me. Then he turned. I recognized Jace, one of Liam’s guys. The last time I’d seen him was at the memorial, his jaw so tight it looked like he’d crack a tooth.
He noticed me, his look softening. That made me angry. Pity was unbearable; it felt like a spotlight on my worst day. But Jace didn’t show pity, just the haunted look of someone who’d seen the world end and couldn’t adjust when it kept turning. He walked over, slow and careful, like approaching a skittish animal.
“Hey,” he said, his voice sounding wrong here. “I didn’t know you were still in town.” His eyes shifted to my cart, to the dye kit; I watched his throat work like he was swallowing something sharp. “How’s Mason?”
I should’ve said fine. The way Jace said Mason’s name was like he mattered to him. My chest tightened anyway. “He’s growing, and I refused to sell our home.” I managed, because it was safe and true. Truth was all I could afford. Jace nodded as if that meant more.
“I’ve wanted to reach out,” he said. There it was, the doorway I didn’t want open. People who served with Liam carried pieces of him like shrapnel. Every conversation felt like picking it out bare-handed. Jace’s gaze dropped, then lifted. “I’ve got something for you, from him.”
My heart pounded until my vision tilted, every breath quick and shallow. I gripped the cart, knuckles white, as the store’s noise faded to a low roar. Fear was sharp, embarrassment heavier, twisting together as I fought to steady myself. I whispered, “Not here,” my trembling voice thick with emotion, refusing to cry by the Easter candy.
Jace’s expression tightened with understanding. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Of course.” He handed me a folded slip of paper, and I took it as if it might burn. “It’s my number, in case you want to talk,” he said, hesitating. “Liam would’ve wanted you to have support.”
The last thing I wanted was to hear what Liam might have wanted. He isn’t here to want anything. Still, I nodded. My body had learned to perform politeness, even as my soul screamed behind my calm face. As Jace stepped back, I felt relieved yet hollow. He left me with eighteen dollars and a presence that lingered like a ghost.
At checkout, my body was tight with effort. I counted my items like heartbeats, keeping my face neutral: dye kit, eggs, smallest bunny, jellybeans, plastic grass, a sturdy enough basket if you didn’t look closely. The total was higher than I expected. Anxiety flared as I handed over cash, holding my breath, refusing to blink.
“You’re good,” the cashier said. My lungs worked again. Relief crashed in, leaving me shaky and embarrassed. I stuffed my change in my pocket and carried the bag out, feeling like I’d survived more than shopping. In the parking lot, I sat in my car, staring at the steering wheel as if it held answers.
Liam, I thought. His name echoed inside me. Sharp longing surfaced and dissolved into a sour ache. My hands trembled on the wheel with grief and exhaustion. I missed him. The thought stung. He would’ve made this easier, made me laugh, reminded me I wasn’t alone. I breathed in raggedly and pressed my forehead to the steering wheel, trying to steady myself as my heart rushed from sadness to stubborn hope. Eventually, I started the car and drove home. I kept repeating that Easter would happen one way or another, even if I had to build it from scraps.
