I sat there in the hard plastic chair with Hazel hoarse and burning against my chest and I watched the empty doorway where he had been, and I did not cry.

I was past crying.

I rocked my daughter, back and forth, back and forth, and I understood that some part of my life had just ended in that room, and that I was, strangely, going to be all right.

There is a grief that arrives without tears, and that was the grief that came over me watching those doors slide shut.

I was not crying because there was nothing left to negotiate, no hope to grieve the loss of, no ambiguity to torment myself with.