I stood alone under a Vancouver sky that couldn’t decide whether to rain or freeze and watched them lower my wife into the earth. The minister was young and kind and had never met Martha. His words floated into the open air, careful as if he were placing plates back into a cupboard that belonged to someone else.
There were three folding chairs under the canopy and two of them were empty. I took the third because if I stayed standing, I might go down and there was no one left to catch me. Mountain View Cemetery swallows sound.
The pine casket settled with a muted thud and the grass closed around it like a secret. When the last prayer dimmed, I did what my hands have been trained to do since the days when pagers ruled our pockets: I pulled out my phone. No missed calls.
No texts. On my lock screen, Martha sat by English Bay in October, a knit hat pulled low, smiling the small private smile she saved for me. I unlocked the phone and, against whatever wisdom grief gives, opened Instagram.
Amber arrived first—algorithmic loyalty dressed as love. She stood in a boutique hotel lobby in Whistler in front of a Christmas tree the size of a promise you never intend to keep. Designer ski jacket.
Champagne flute. “Living my best life. Self‑care isn’t selfish,” the caption declared four hours earlier.
The twinkle lights put diamonds in her eyes. For a second I remembered the six‑year‑old who had slept with the dog’s collar under her pillow for a week and refused school because love hurt. Then I swiped.
Ryan shook hands with a developer in Toronto beneath a ribbon that had already been cut. “Three years. $40M.
Grateful for the team,” the caption said six hours ago. Thumbs applauded. Words like visionary and leadership piled up.
I looked at the photo and felt old. Not the kind of old knees measure, the kind that sits behind your ribs and counts absences. The minister’s voice brushed my sleeve.
“Would you like a moment, Mr. Morrison?” I nodded. I stayed until the last handful of soil tapped the lid and the workers in their rubber boots folded their reverence into motion.
When I finally left, my umbrella shook like a living thing and Main Street pretended nothing had happened at all. Night came thin and long. Sleep arrived in thirty‑minute rations, a hospital drip for a wound no one could stitch.
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