For the next six months, I did not answer a single call from my parents or my sister.

There were not many to ignore.

The calls were few and far between, and when they came, they were not about me.

They were cheerful vacation photos dropped into a group chat.

They were forwarded updates about nothing.

They were, at one point, a formal, printed invitation to Sabrina’s engagement party, mailed to the home where I was still sorting my dead children’s clothing, as though no tragedy had ever touched our family at all, as though the empty pews had never happened, as though I might simply put on a nice dress and come celebrate.

While they carried on with their untouched lives, I spent my days doing the work that grief actually is, the work no one tells you about — the endless, grinding administration of death.