I Sent My Mom Flowers Every Friday for a Year. She Thinks They're From Dad.

Synopsis

Dad died in January. Heart. Quick. The kind of death that people call "lucky" — as if speed makes loss easier. It doesn't. It just makes it faster. Mom stopped going outside in February. Stopped cooking in March. By April, she was a woman who existed inside a house that felt like a museum of someone who wasn't there anymore. His chair. His coffee cup. His…