An Inch to the Left

By Emilie Kafer

A peaceful afternoon on a hot sunny day. Sitting by the pool watching my toddlers laugh and splash.

“Watch this, Mama,” they giggle, then dive into the frigid water with reckless joy. I grin, laugh, then pull their dripping bodies into me, soaking my clothes without a second thought.

My heart soars.

These are the moments I dreamed of. The ones I wished for and never believed would come true. Tiny snapshots of their childhood I’ll carry with me forever.

I’m happy.

Grateful.

Beyond blessed.

But I’m also devastated.

Shattered.

Broken.

Nobody really talks about the way you can be happy, despite the bleeding hole in your heart. That your soul can feel whole and shattered at the same time.

The one thing that was missing from that moment was the baby who was supposed to be in my arms. The one I planned for in our summer adventures. The one I bought tiny sun hats for; just for days like this.  

A photo from that moment would look perfect to most. But no one would see the missing weight. The wreckage humming beneath the surface.

Grief does that. It folds itself into you so seamlessly you forget where it ends and you begin. One moment, you’re forcing the words “I’m fine” to the grocery clerk who never really cared, and the next, you’re telling a friend that it’s been a good day. And you mean it.

And that fact hurts.

It hurts so damn much that you can have a good day despite what’s missing. It hurts how easy it is to go back to living day-to-day.

To smiling for photos and laughing with your kids.

To showing up for work and chatting with co-workers.

It hurts when people ask how you are and mean it. And it hurts when they don’t.  

People mean well. They really do. They offer condolences and send flowers. They pull you in for a hug that lasts just long enough to say, I see your pain. They commend your strength and the courage you have for showing up, for getting out of bed, for getting dressed.

But they can never understand how every laugh breaks off another small piece of your soul. Or how the simple act of brushing your teeth can carry the crushing weight of betrayal.  

The world keeps moving around me. I read books. I get groceries. I laugh at the stupid video my husband sends me. I take my kids to birthday parties and barbeques and T-ball practice. And all the while, I’m carrying around a heart that doesn’t beat the same as it used to.

I move about life like I’m underwater, a kettlebell strapped to my foot, pretending to walk and breathe just fine.

They say time heals. It’s bullshit. Time doesn’t heal. It teaches you how to hide. It finds a way to reroute the pain. It figures out how to avoid a song that will make you break down in public or to smile and be genuinely happy as your sister tells you she is pregnant. Even while a fire is blazing inside your lungs with every breath and a hammer is pounding at your heart like a seasoned carpenter.

I’ve been told I should be grateful. I have two beautiful, perfect, amazing children. As if that somehow replaces the child that should be here and isn’t. As if love is finite and since I have two kids already, my cup should be full. As if having one more would have been too much or one child somehow replaces another.

Here’s the thing. I am grateful. Every day, I am grateful. But I’m also angry. And I’m devastated. It’s something nobody teaches you how to handle. The simultaneous ability to coexist in both joy and sorrow. Or how life moves forward even while a part of you sits on a shelf, hovering over the dining table that they will never actually sit at.

Life has become uncanny. Or, as the Scottish used to define it, unpleasantly hard. Everything is the same — the swimming lessons, bedtime stories, the mountain of laundry every Friday night, but nothing feels the same.

The world is slightly tilted. Like somebody shifted all the furniture an inch to the left. Like the light is just a tad too dim. The sound doesn’t match the movement of mouths. I’m here, but something vital to my very being is missing and I feel it in every breath.

The world eventually expects you to be normal again. To move on. To stop letting grief rule your life. They stop sending flowers. Stop showing up with meals. Stop asking how you are doing. There is no explicit deadline. The buzzer doesn’t start blaring. But the ticking is there. The unspoken pressure. The desire to just get back to normal so your sorrow doesn’t weigh down the conversation. That’s when you start to learn to keep it to yourself.

And you smile. You smile until you actually start to believe it yourself. You post pictures of the kids with cute captions and reply to texts and tell people you're fine. And sometimes, you even mean it.

You don’t get over it and you never move on. Instead, you carry it. You let it shape who you are. You let it carve itself into your bones. Etch itself into your heart. You learn to say his name without crying and whisper I love you to the air. You build a home for your grief. You honor it.  

You stop apologizing for the tears. You stop shrinking your sorrow to fit someone else’s comfort. You speak his name, even if it brings silence or stares.

And maybe that is the real strength. Not the smiling or the pretending. Not the showing up. But the refusal to pretend he didn’t exist.

Grief hasn’t made me weak.

It means I had something so real and so loved that losing it cracked the world in two.

And I still live here. In this shifted world.

A little dimmer and a little braver.

Still smiling and still crying.

But never the same.