dead.

It feels like striking someone who cannot raise a hand.

But grief is not polite.

It tears open doors inside you and lets every forbidden thought walk out.

“How could you leave me with her?” I whispered.

The cabin gave no answer.

I thought of all the times I had stayed quiet to keep peace in his marriage.

Mariana correcting the way I folded towels.

Mariana telling guests I was confused when I had only asked a question.

Mariana moving my things from one bedroom to another without asking.

Mariana calling me dramatic when I cried quietly on my late husband’s birthday.

Neftali had seen some of it.

Not all, but enough.

He had confronted her when he caught it, but she always became soft in front of him.

She would lower her eyes, touch his arm, and say, “Your mother misunderstands me.”

Sometimes I hated how much he wanted to believe that.

That first night, I almost burned his photograph.

There was kindling near the stove, damp but usable.

I held the picture near it and imagined the edges curling, his smile blackening, the proof of him turning into ash.

I wanted to punish him for dying.

I wanted to punish myself for loving a child so completely that his absence felt like punishment enough.

But my hand would not open.

I pressed the photograph to my chest and sobbed until my body had no strength left.

Morning came gray and cold.

Light entered through the cracked window in thin strips, revealing the true shame of the place.

Dust lay over everything.

Cobwebs sagged from the rafters.

Leaves had blown under the door and rotted near the wall.

The floorboards were warped and stained, but they were still beneath me, and that mattered.

I saw a broom in the corner.

Something in me changed then.

It was not hope.

Hope was too gentle.

What rose in me was harder, almost stubborn.

Mariana had expected me to collapse into the ruin she had chosen for me.

She expected me to become smaller until I disappeared.

I decided I would not give her that satisfaction.

I started cleaning.

I swept until my back ached.

I dragged broken crates outside and stacked them near the porch.

I wiped dirt from the windows with the edge of my sleeve.

I found an old bucket, carried water from the rain barrel, and washed the table until pale wood appeared beneath the grime.

With every small improvement, my anger became steadier.

Not loud.

Not wild.

Useful.

In the far corner, beneath fallen leaves and a layer of dust, I found something that made me stop.

A small wooden altar.

For a moment, I forgot the cold.

I forgot the ache in my knees.

I forgot Mariana.

Neftali had carried that altar up to the cabin years before.

I remembered the day clearly because I had laughed at him for being so careful with it.

It had belonged to my mother, then to me.

Dark wood.

Simple carving.

A small shelf where candles could sit.

He had said, “When I fix this place, this goes by the window.”

I had asked why he cared about an old thing.

He had shrugged and smiled.

“Because you care about it.”

Now it sat in the corner of