Staring down at my hand where it’s resting on my thigh, I spread my fingers wide. I meant what I’d said. “I know I need to take it off,” I whisper. “But it feels so final, Vi. Like taking it off makes it more real. That he’s not coming home and then I have to do the really scary part of moving on.” “Whether you take it off or leave it on doesn’t change that, though,” she says quietly, gently. I nod again. “That’s the worst part about grieving someone that died. Learning to accept that hard truth. It doesn’t matter how much we want it to be different, it’s not.”
