It arrives unannounced. A random Tuesday afternoon, three years after the door closed. You’re slicing vegetables and suddenly… there it is. Not a memory of the fight. Not the echo of his voice. Something more ghostly. The image of walking through a house you never bought. The phantom weight of a child you never conceived. The smell of Thanksgiving in a kitchen that never got built. This is where grief gets cunning. We think we’re mourning what was. In truth, we’re often being haunted by what was supposed to be. The past can be picked over, analyzed, and eventually boxed up. But the future? A future meticulously constructed from hope, fantasy, and shared promises ~ that future has no corpse. No funeral. No casserole-bearing friends to acknowledge its passing. It simply dissolves into the ether, leaving behind a residue that sticks to the ribs like tar. The trip to Italy. The dog you’d adopt. The way he’d finally learn your father’s name and use it with respect. All of it evaporates, and nobody sends a condolence card. This un-grieved timeline is the anchor that keeps you tethered to a person you haven’t spoken to in years. It’s the reason your