David handled his grief differently.
Every year after Hannah’s birthday celebration, he disappeared into the garage for about an hour.
I never asked what he was doing.
I assumed he needed time alone.
I had my own rituals.
I always did laundry on Hannah’s birthday, even if there wasn’t enough for a full load.
Folding towels calmed me.
We had become experts at grieving separately.
Then Hannah turned eighteen.
We threw a party at our house.
About thirty people came.
Relatives.
Neighbors.
Friends.
My brother handled the grill.
My sister brought far too much potato salad.
There was a grocery-store cake with HAPPY 18TH, HANNAH! written in blue frosting.
Her biggest present was a used car.
Nothing fancy.
But hers.
When David handed her the keys, she screamed.
“Oh my God!”
She threw her arms around him.
“You actually bought it?”
He laughed.
“No, that’s a random car I stole for the occasion.”
