The backyard was silent except for the shovel’s dull thud as it cut through the moist earth.
It was late autumn, and the cold crept into my bones, matching the chill that had settled in my heart.
I was digging a grave for my daughter, or at least that’s what it felt like.
The act was wrapped in silence, a silence so vast it felt like it could swallow us whole.
“It wasn’t some desperate moment of madness,” I reminded myself, “but a carefully planned move.”
Yet, what felt most off was the absence of questions from those around us.
Nobody came to check on us.
Days dragged on, an endless loop of factory shifts and quiet dinners.
My wife and I exchanged few words about what had happened.
It was as if speaking of it would make it more real, more permanent.
