Things people bought.

She finally understood why her father had always eaten dinner in his car after her mother bought him that Owala water bottle for his "lunch meetings." Now she sat in her own driveway at 6 PM, sipping from the same bottle, watching her husband set the table for a family that had learned to eat around her absence.

She realized she'd been hoping for the diagnosis when the doctor said "terminal," and now she was sitting in her car afterward, drinking lukewarm coffee from her Stanley tumbler and feeling more alive than she had in years. The relief was so overwhelming she had to pull over to sob — not from grief, but from the sudden, terrible understanding that she'd been drowning in her marriage all along.

She hadn't realized how much of her marriage was measured in his portions until she found herself weighing a single chicken breast on the Etekcity scale, watching the display read 4.2 ounces — exactly half of what she used to cook. The kitchen felt enormous now, and for the first time in twenty-three years, she didn't apologize to anyone for the silence.

She hadn't cooked meat in the three years since the diagnosis, but tonight she pulled the Alpha Grillers thermometer from the drawer and watched the numbers climb as she pressed it into the thick steak. When it hit 130 degrees, she realized she was crying — not from grief, but from the sudden, overwhelming relief of being allowed to want things again.

She hadn't realized how much she'd been holding her breath for thirty-seven years until the lawyer said "everything goes to you," and now she stood in her mother's kitchen, running her thumb along the smooth edge of the Gorilla Grip can opener. Tomorrow she'd throw out every can in the house and never eat another meal that came from something her mother might have touched.

She finally cut her wedding dress into cleaning rags six months after the divorce, the KitchenAid shears slicing through silk like it was made to disappear. Each strip felt like breathing again.

She packed his usual turkey sandwich in the Lifewit lunch bag every morning for three months after the funeral, leaving it by the door where he used to grab it. The bread had stopped molding weeks ago — now it just turned to powder when she finally threw each bag away.

She finally understood why her mother hoarded leftovers when she found herself dividing his ashes into five Rubbermaid Brilliance containers, each one labeled with a different family member's name. The airtight seal meant she could postpone the conversation about who actually wanted them.

She kept her husband's ashes in the YETI Rambler because the funeral home's urn looked cheap, and now she carried him to book club every Tuesday, sipping wine while he rattled softly against the stainless steel.

She finally understood why her mother never remarried after the divorce — there was something intoxicating about making dinner for one, the Lodge skillet perfectly sized for a single pork chop, no compromise required. Thirty years of marriage condensed to this: the relief of cooking exactly what she wanted, when she wanted, the red silicone handle cool in her grip as she realized she'd been holding her breath for decades.