I did the normal things—the ones that made you feel like an adult who was also part of a network of adults committed to doing the same thing over and over again. Like going to the grocery store.

The parking lot was always jammed full of impatient people waiting for their turn to slide into compact parking spots before slamming their doors into the sides of the cars next to them. And once that was sorted, we struggled with shopping carts that became increasingly impossible to navigate through hordes of people trying to get the last box of spaghetti or bag of lentils. Whatever it was, we would all fight over it. Instead of fighting, I lingered in the wine aisle, which was usually the most relaxed aisle, trying to decide if I could splurge on eight-dollar wine or if I’d need to stick to the $5.99 selection I had grown tired of. But I couldn’t come home with a cartful of wine, so I dragged myself through other aisles, wishing there was a pill you could take for nutrients rather than always having to do this.

I also did laundry. I sat in the backyard with a drink while I waited for the machines to do their thing. The light in the back of our apartment building had burned out months ago, and so I sat in the darkness, breathing in the smells of night-blooming jasmine and orange trees with bright white flower buds. The night smells of L.A. are what get you, charm you, and make it feel impossible ever to leave. I thought about Daphne as I sat in the darkness and tried to understand why I was trying to avoid the loss of her. We were supposed to be learning detachment. I knew she was dying, with my help or not, and yet I wanted to prolong her suffering—so I could visit her once a week and learn something from her. People say watching someone pass on will inevitably make you look at your own life and question if you are making the best use of it. I was using Daphne as a clarifier for my life, because I couldn’t trust myself to know what I wanted otherwise. Through her letters I could tell she had wished she had been a more active participant in her own.

Bobby was lying on the couch, watching TV, when I came back inside with the laundry.

“I thought you weren’t coming back.”

He said this more often now, and I took it as a dare.

“I was doing laundry.”

“I know, but, like, you don’t have to sit outside for two hours.”

“I know I don’t.”

“Did you go to your support group today?” he asked me in an attempt to be conciliatory.

“What are you talking about?”

“Aren’t you still going to your support group for grief?”

“I graduated.”

“To what?”

“To not having to go anymore.”