The casual neglect, the backhanded insults. What a line. “A Christmas gift from a friend, even though Shoba and Shukumar hadn’t celebrated Christmas last year.” As if not celebrating eliminated it from the calendar, or nullified the gift. The separation of this pair in the familiar and mundane. The isolation. Ah, there it is. Tragedy. The things we remember surrounding tragedy are so often small but so fixed in our memories. Ugh, “...in a wing of the hospital they hadn’t been to on the tour for expectant parents.” Oh, the casual cruelties we inflict on the grieving… ”these things happen.” They are both grieving and both feeling guilt. Maybe they’ve talked it out and there are no more tears to cry but you get the sense they haven’t shared their grief, they’ve coped individually. I think there is a slight hint at an unreliable narrator at play here. The husband feels like the wife he knew has changed. The woman he loved has changed. Like it’s an intentional insult. He can’t understand why she would want to escape the place where she nested and imagined raising her child when he feels scared to leave as if that will prevent tragedy. As if preventing change will keep things as they should be. My husband doesn’t understand why I hate our house so much but we bought this house imagining we would fill it with children and every moment here is a reminder to me. I had to look up what a carrel was. UGH! THE CASUAL CRUELTIES WE INFLICT ON THE GRIEVING! I know, I know. MIL’s grieving too. People say stupid things. The symbology of the darkness being a place for secrets too hard to speak in the light is clear. The forced gift of intimacy from the utility company meeting their desperate need to find each other again in the darkness, through the darkness, and back into the light. We, as a society, are so uncomfortable with grief. We want to hurt others when we are hurting and at the very moment when our empathy should be closest to the surface. We are left at the moment of their breaking, the grief finally being expressed. It’s as if the author doesn’t want us to resolve the story by having an answer to how they proceed from here because that is not the point. The release was the point, the breaking, the sharing of sorrow. Goodness sakes I’m wrung out.