The basement storage room under their garage had always been lined with shelves of jars, and every summer she had to restock them. Over the years, she had built up a whole collection of recipes, including pickled plums and spiced apples that her husband loved so much he once bought a wooden barrel just for them. The men in the family could hardly imagine dinner without some kind of pickle or relish on the table.
They were never heavy drinkers and only opened a bottle on special occasions, but a jar of mushrooms or pickles to start a meal was a regular thing. Now what was she supposed to do with all the food she had made, and for whom was she supposed to cook? There was no point in making big pots of soup or filling the freezer with homemade dumplings. The people she had cared for were gone, and with them went the reason to get up in the morning.
She had sunk into a state of total uselessness and painful isolation. The future looked like a long dark tunnel with no light at the end. She moved through her days on pure momentum, using every bit of strength she had just to keep the tears in check. It would have made sense to distract herself with chores, but her home was already spotless.
She cleaned mechanically, without any real relief from it. And in a modest two-bedroom apartment, there was only so much tidying to do. The bedroom held little more than a large wardrobe, a vanity with a mirror, and the wide bed she had once shared with her husband—a bed that now felt unnervingly large for one person.
The living room had a round dining table, two comfortable chairs facing the television, a wall unit with dishes and keepsakes, and the sofa bed that had belonged to her son. His clothes were still in a small closet nearby, and several shelves held his favorite books. The family had always eaten in that room because the kitchen was too small for three adults to sit comfortably.
It was an ordinary apartment in an ordinary building, nothing fancy, but it had everything a family needed. Still, life had taught her that the true value of a home is the people inside it. Laughter, shared plans, small conversations at the end of the day—that was what made a place feel alive. Without that, the nice dishes and carefully chosen decor had lost all meaning.
The blooming houseplants on the windowsill no longer made her smile. Her husband’s fishing gear—good rods, tackle boxes, even a newer net—sat untouched on the enclosed balcony. No one would sort through it anymore or come home proud of a modest catch from the local lake. After receiving a few final words of comfort from Father Michael, Eleanor slowly made her way back toward her building.
All the way home, she tried not to think about the fact that she was returning to a cold, empty place. Once again she would click on the hallway light, take off her shoes in silence, and hang up her coat without a word. As usual, she would turn on the television for background noise without paying attention to what was on, just to keep the walls from feeling so silent. Dinner would be little more than herbal tea and a couple of crackers.
Her appetite had nearly disappeared. In the first few days after the accident, she had still cooked out of habit, until she realized she physically could not eat the portions she had once made for two healthy men. One day she even boiled a huge pot of pasta before remembering there was no one left to share it with.
Now all she could do was wander from room to room, trying to find some use for her hands. In her old life, housework had filled her days from morning until late at night. Back then, she used to daydream about the time when the chores would ease up and leave her a few precious hours for herself…
