The Widow’s Guide to Moving On (Sort Of)

Day 1: The Ham Incident

Frank died at 6:17 a.m. on a Tuesday. By 10:42 a.m., someone brought a ham.

It was still warm.

I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. I was still wearing the sweatpants I’d slept in—correction, the sweatpants I hadn’t slept in, because no one sleeps on Day 0 of becoming a widow. They just lie there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if they’re supposed to call someone or if death notifies people on its own like some grim newsletter.

The ham arrived in a foil tray, courtesy of Helen McAllister, whom I haven’t spoken to since she tried to sell me essential oils at Frank’s retirement party.

“It’s spiral-cut,” she whispered, like it was a gift from God Himself. “And glazed.”

I stood there, nodding at the ham like it had feelings.

“Thank you,” I said, holding it like a newborn. A heavy, meaty, honey-glazed newborn.

She patted my arm and said, “You’re being so strong,” which is just what people say when they don’t know what else to say. Then she left.

I put the ham on the counter and stared at it for ten minutes.

I didn’t cry when the doctor called it.

I didn’t cry when they zipped up the bag.

But apparently, ham is what broke me.

Because I sat on the kitchen floor, next to Frank’s stupid Crocs he swore were “functional,” and sobbed into a spiral of pork while whispering, “You would’ve hated this ham, Frank. You always said ham was smug.”

And I think maybe it is.

Day 2: I Just Screamed at a Garden Gnome

Not a metaphorical one. A literal, smug-faced gnome with a fishing pole and a chipped hat, perched on the edge of her garden like he owned the damn begonias.

She had gone out to water the plants—Frank’s plants, technically, though he’d been dead for 2 days—and tripped over the hose. In her defense, the gnome was right there. Smirking.

"You think this is funny?” she snapped.

The gnome didn’t answer.

“I’m here, watering your begonias, wearing your ratty sweatshirt because it still smells like you, and I haven’t changed the sheets since the day you died. And you're smiling like that?” She stomped toward it, knocking over a ceramic mushroom.

And then, she screamed.

Not a cute, startled yelp. A full-throated, rage-fueled primal yell that startled a bird out of the nearby elm and made the neighbor’s cat dart under the porch. Then she burst into tears.

After about three minutes of sobbing and accusing the gnome of being “an insensitive troll,” Marianne walked back inside, poured a glass of red wine to the rim, and opened her laptop.

She clicked on a document and typed:

“Day 2 Without Frank: I Just Screamed at a Gnome.”

Thus began the journal that was never meant to be read.

Marianne had always believed grief was quiet. A soft ache in the background, like a sad cello at a funeral.

It wasn’t.

Grief was loud. It crashed through her thoughts like a marching band on a caffeine bender. It interrupted her in the produce aisle, where she burst into tears because she couldn’t remember whether Frank liked Fuji or Gala apples. It mocked her during sleep, leaving her to wake up grasping at fading dreams of him sitting at the kitchen table, humming Bob Dylan and pretending to understand crosswords.

She wrote every night—little slices of fury, heartbreak, and absurdity. Her journal entries had titles like:

“Ten Reasons Why Grief Yoga is Bullsh*t”

“How to Politely Decline Casseroles Without Offending an Entire Church”

The document, titled Don’t Read This, lived quietly on her laptop, hidden between folders.

Day 4: The Day I Yelled at the Funeral Flowers

Here’s a fun fact: Lilies smell like grief and disappointment. Not the fresh kind. The kind that’s been sitting in a corner, silently judging you, like your mother-in-law used to do during Thanksgiving dinner.

I didn’t know I hated funeral flowers until I had a house full of them. And when I say full, I mean my living room looked like the lobby of a moderately upscale mortuary.

Lilies, roses, carnations, something purple and dramatic—I don’t know flower names, but they all screamed, “Sorry he died, please enjoy this temporary and expensive reminder of it.”

Every time I walked past them, they hit me with this sickly-sweet perfume that made my stomach turn. Frank always said flowers gave him a headache. I used to think he was being dramatic.

Turns out he was right. They smell like regret.

I finally lost it on Day 4.

I was trying to carry a tray of lasagna someone dropped off (the third one that week—if I ever see another ricotta layer, I will scream), and I knocked over one of the big arrangements. Water went everywhere. A card floated out. It said:

“May you find peace in your time of sorrow. —The Flanagans”

And I snapped.

“OH REALLY, FLANAGANS? PEACE? YOU THINK I’M AT PEACE BECAUSE YOU SENT A 3-FOOT TOWER OF WILT?”

I was yelling. At a bouquet. Alone. In my bathrobe.

I picked up one of the lilies and flung it into the trash like I was competing in some kind of Olympic Sadness Shot Put event.

Then I burst into tears.

Because it wasn’t about the lilies. It was about the fact that Frank wasn’t here to laugh at how unhinged I looked, covered in flower water and marinara sauce, crying in my bathrobe.

I cleaned up the mess. Then I threw away every single funeral arrangement, except the one with sunflowers. Frank liked sunflowers. Said they looked like they were “trying too hard to be happy.” Same, buddy.

I kept those. Put them by his urn. I apologized to the Flanagans.

I did not apologize to the lilies.

They started it.

Day 8: When the Urn Arrives in a Box

Frank came home today.

In a box.

Delivered by FedEx.

The driver knocked once, dropped the package, and drove off before I could open the door. Like he knew. Like, he didn’t want to get involved in this level of awkward.

The box was suspiciously light. Like, I ordered protein powder light. Which made me feel weird and guilty, like I should’ve fed Frank more iron-rich foods when he was alive. I carried him inside and set him on the kitchen table next to a bowl of oranges, which felt both wildly inappropriate and exactly right.

Here’s what no one tells you:

Cremation doesn’t come with instructions.

There’s no helpful pamphlet like, “So You Just Got Your Husband in Ash Form—Now What?”

I Googled “where to put an urn” and was greeted with images of Pinterest-worthy mantels with tasteful lighting and inspirational quotes. I don’t have a mantle. I have a bookcase with a leaning tower of cookbooks and a plant that’s half-dead, much like my will to keep watering things.

Eventually, I stuck Frank on the windowsill above the sink, which used to be his favorite spot to make coffee and critique my dishwashing.

“I still say you leave residue on the forks,” I muttered.

No reply. Rude.

Out of spite, I made a terrible cup of coffee, grounds in the cup, didn’t even stir, and drank it while staring at his urn.

“You’re not special just because you’re in a fancy tin, Frank,” I told him. “You still snored like a walrus and left socks all over the floor.”

I swear the urn glinted at me. Judging me.

Later, I accidentally knocked it over while reaching for a sponge. The ashes didn’t spill—but I did yell, “Oh sh*t, sorry!” like I’d stepped on his foot instead of body-slamming what’s left of him.

This is the part of grief that no one prepares you for.

Not the tears or casseroles.

Not the fact that your husband can now be moved with one hand while holding a lukewarm mug in the other.

Day 10: The Widow Walk of Shame

There is a particular humiliation in being caught crying in the Costco freezer section.

I’m talking ugly-crying. Puffy eyes, snot, and making audible gulping noises in front of the fish sticks.

I wasn’t even there for food. I was there because I missed being around people, but didn’t want anyone to talk to me. Costco is perfect for that.

What triggered it? A bulk box of Eggo waffles.

Frank used to eat them every Saturday morning like a six-year-old on a sugar bender. Butter, syrup, and half a bottle of whipped cream. He used to leave the last one on the plate and say, “It’s for the ghost,” and then pretend to shiver and make spooky noises while licking syrup off his fingers.

I saw those stupid waffles and collapsed like my knees had turned to spaghetti. A very concerned middle-aged man with a mustache asked if I was okay.

I said, “I’m fine,” which is code for “I would like to disappear into the floor now.”

He handed me a tissue and backed away slowly like I was a live grenade.

And then—because I am nothing if not committed to self-destruction—I bought the damn waffles. All 96 of them.

When I got home, I ate four, burnt the last one a little too much, and left it on the plate.

For the ghost.

Day 16: The First Time I Laughed After

I wasn’t expecting to laugh. That’s the thing.

It came out sideways, like a hiccup and a cough had a baby, and it was raised by sarcasm.

I was at the grocery store, standing in the toilet paper aisle—because that’s where I cry now, apparently—trying to remember if I’d run out. Which was a pointless question because I live alone now. It’s not like Frank is going to magically need a triple-ply Charmin.

And then I saw it.

This old man—probably 80, hunched over, using his cane like a weapon of dignity—staring at a pack of adult diapers with the same look I had used earlier on cake mix: cautious hope.

He turned to his wife (I assume) and said, loud enough for the entire aisle to hear:

“These say they’re super-absorbent, but so did my first wife, and she still left me.”

I lost it.

I mean, I howled.

Right there, next to a pyramid display of Quilted Northern, I doubled over and laughed like something inside me cracked and joy fell out.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t polite. It sounded like I was choking on a duck call.

The couple looked at me, surprised.

I wiped a tear and said, “Sorry. That just… caught me off guard.”

The man winked. “Comedy’s cheaper than therapy.”

I stood there for a minute after they walked off, holding a 12-pack of toilet paper like it might comfort me.

Because it hit me:

I hadn’t laughed since Frank died.

Not a chuckle. Not a breathy nose-puff. Nothing.

And now, two weeks deep into this grief swamp, I was laughing about incontinence jokes with strangers in aisle seven.

The laugh didn’t last long. It dissolved into tears, as it does.

But for one moment, just one, I remembered what it felt like to be human.

I bought the toilet paper, a cheap bouquet of daisies, and a pack of snack cakes Frank used to pretend he didn’t like but always ate.

I went home. I told Frank about the old man and the super-absorbent wife. I imagined him cracking up.

“I bet she was super-absorbent,” I said aloud. “She married you, after all.”

And for a moment, the silence felt a little less heavy.

Day 87: Frank’s Underwear Drawer

It took 87 days for me to open Frank’s underwear drawer. And when I did, I cried for six straight minutes, laughed for two, and then cried again.

Here’s the thing no one tells you about losing your husband: his socks will outlive him.

I didn’t open the drawer because I was finally “ready.” I opened it because I ran out of laundry detergent and needed something soft to dust with. That’s the kind of grief I’m in—emotionally paralyzed but still concerned about baseboards.

And there they were. Rolled military-style, like the good ex-Marine he was: briefs, boxer briefs, a pair of novelty Santa boxers I bought him as a joke in 2012. He wore them every Christmas after that, like it was his solemn marital duty.

There was something deeply offensive about his underwear still existing. As if they hadn’t gotten the memo.

He’s dead, you idiots. Go with him.

I sat on the floor with a pair of khakis he hadn’t worn since 2019, sobbing into a sock that probably still had traces of his gym sweat, and then, I found it.

A note. Folded in half. Tucked under a rolled-up t-shirt.

“If you’re reading this, it means I’m probably dead, and you’re being nosy in my drawer. I love you, Mare. Now get out of my stuff.”

I choked on a laugh that startled the dog.

I didn’t know whether to hug the note or burn it. I didn’t know if I was comforted or furious that Frank had anticipated I’d be here someday, knee-deep in grief and boxer briefs. I just knew I couldn’t throw anything away that night.

So instead of cleaning, I lay down on the bedroom floor next to his socks, let the dog lick my tears, and whispered, “You smug bastard. You were right.”

Day 108: Maybe Moving On Doesn’t Mean Forgetting

She wrote about the chai latte. About Noah’s quiet voice. About how she accidentally laughed too loudly at a grocery store joke and didn’t feel guilty afterward.

She wrote:

Grief is not a thing you get over. It’s a place you visit, again and again, and each time the luggage is a little lighter. Sometimes you even forget you’re carrying it—until you find a pair of old gardening gloves in the garage and burst into tears next to the recycling bin.

No More Days (The Last Page)

There’s no more “Day Whatever.”

Grief stopped letting me number it.

At some point, the days just became days again. Not milestones. Not landmines. Just… Tuesday. With coffee that doesn’t taste like sadness. Or at least not only sadness.

I didn’t arrive at peace. I just got tired of carrying the weight like it was a badge.

Grief didn’t leave. It unpacked. Moved in. Rearranged the furniture.

Now it just lives here.

But it got quieter.

Some days I still lose it—over socks, songs, or people who say things like, “He’s in a better place.” (Spoiler alert: he preferred this one. With me. Eating Cheez-Its and yelling at the Bills.)

Other days, I forget for a moment. And in that moment, I feel almost guilty. And then not guilty. And then weirdly proud.

Because I’m still here.

I’m still paying bills, yelling at the toaster, accidentally laughing at dog fart jokes, and figuring out how to live in a world he left behind.

Somewhere along the way, I started planting things again.

Little things. Basil. Cherry tomatoes. Hope.

And the other day, I sat in his chair, turned on the TV, and realized I didn’t feel haunted. Just… held.

The truth is, I didn’t write this to be read. I wrote it because I needed a place to fall apart without someone telling me to be strong.

But if you’ve been reading, and you’ve felt any less alone, then maybe that’s the point.

Grief is not something you finish. It’s something you carry. Like a scar, or a tattoo, or a strange little rock in your shoe that reminds you: you loved.

And loving was worth it.

So no, there’s no Day 109.

There’s just today.

And today, I got out of bed. I fed the dog. I opened the window. I laughed—once, maybe twice. And I didn’t cry when I said his name out loud.

That’s not nothing.

That’s survival.

That’s life.

Enter Talia.

My 23-year-old niece blew into town like a human glitter bomb, high on oat milk and hustle culture. She’d recently quit her graphic design job “for her mental health,” and was crashing at Marianne’s house “just until I figure things out.” She brought three tote bags, two ring lights, and a rescue Pomeranian named Kevin.

One rainy afternoon, Talia asked to borrow my laptop to print something.

“Fine,” I said, handing it over. “But don’t go poking around my files.”

“I would never,” Talia said, already opening files. Five minutes later, she was cackling on the couch.

“Marianne. What. Is. This.”

Marianne squinted. “Put that down.”

“It’s genius,” Talia said, eyes wide. “It’s like… Eat, Pray, Cry. This is therapy meets comedy meets brutally honest widow realness. People need this.”

“I need you to close the laptop.”

Talia closed it. But not before she emailed the file to herself.

Two weeks later, I received a PayPal notification for $187.63. The description read: KDP Royalties – Widow’s Guide Sales.

I blinked. KDP? What in God’s name was—

I Googled it. Kindle Direct Publishing.

Click. Scroll. Click.

There it was.

My words.

My ridiculous, messy, painfully honest words—on Amazon. With a peach-pink cover showing a wilted daisy in a wine glass. Title:

The Widow’s Guide to Moving On (Sort Of)

Author: M.G. Greene

I stared at the screen in horror.

“I will bury her under the begonias,” I muttered.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I gave you a platform,” Talia said, unrepentant. “And look at the reviews!”

“I didn’t ask for reviews. I didn’t ask for readers!”

“But they love it. Look!”

Talia turned the screen. A stranger had written: “I laughed, I cried, I ordered begonias. This book gave me permission to grieve and still find humor in life. Thank you, M.G. Greene.”

Marianne stared at the words.

I didn’t bury Talia in the garden.