Perhaps it is the water, or maybe the act of doing something innocuous like washing dishes, but she can only cry at the kitchen sink.
She’d made the discovery by accident. She’d been scrubbing a plate when a paroxysm of grief surged through her, racking sobs that were thankfully drowned out by the rushing faucet.
She’d stood there weeping, the water cascading over her hands matching the tears rolling over her cheeks.
Afterward she felt amazing.
Cleansed.
Free.
Now after dinner she quickly gathers the plates and silverware, shoos her family from the kitchen, her heart skipping in eager anticipation
