I look over at the urn just sitting across from me on my nightstand. I thought I’d feel lighter having cracked the case, but instead I feel like I’m in the throes of some sort of weird emotional hangover. My husband’s ashes needing to be rehomed was complicated enough. But now, the urn’s return has managed to unearth things I think a lot of people thought were done and dusted. And at this point, Brian and Debbie have no idea that I. Know. Everything.

Perhaps I should circle back to confronting Brian, the author of the twenty-two—make that twenty-three—frantic text messages sitting in my inbox, but after letting things crumble, I’ve decided I’ve got nothing to say to him right now.

So instead, I lean into the emotional wave I’m on and let it take me somewhere I haven’t been in ages.

Chapter 21

“Hi. I’m Lucy,” says a Martha-Stewart-looking middle-aged blonde woman who stands up from her chair.

“Hi, Lucy,” the room responds in unison.

I treat going to grief group like a visit to the gynecologist: an uncomfortable hour wherein you know you are doing something good for your health, so you just suck it up and make a personal agreement to reward yourself with a giant ice cream after—and not the fat-free frozen yogurt kind but a double scoop of malted cookie dough from Salt & Straw. In a chocolate-dipped waffle cone.

The first available drop-in grief group being held this morning is in a meeting room in a Los Angeles Public Library branch off Laurel Canyon Drive. I’ve never been to this exact meeting; it’s women-only. Most of the attendees here appear to be a bit older than me, but I’m used to that being the case. I sit quietly, respectfully, and listen to Lucy’s story in preparation for any words of comfort to grab on to. The kind I so desperately need right now.

“I lost my husband of twenty-three years when he was killed in a workplace explosion,” announces Lucy.

The room lets out a series of gasps and a few members start to tear. They must be newbies. Sure, it’s gnarly to picture, but a workplace explosion doesn’t shock me. It just tells me there’s another person in the room to whom I can tell what happened to my husband and she won’t be horrified either.

“I saw a therapist this week for my grief. My husband’s death anniversary is next month and so summers are always really tough for me. His death anniversary is even harder than our wedding anniversary. Does anyone else tend to ride the death anniversary train like I do?”

Several people raise their hands. I raise mine, too. The sound of the air-conditioning kicks on. The room needed a little white noise.

“Anyhow, my therapist explained something about grief last week in a way that really resonated with me. It’s amazing how you can read every book on the subject, scroll through every online forum, and keep coming to these groups, yet still be able to learn something new about how to process our favorite emotion.”