Just last week I was telling someone that this month (today actually) marks 3 years since you died.
And then, just like, implausibly, some people take a long time to remember their age, I realized that I was off by a whole year.
It is two years. But you have to hush your grief in this world after 6 months. Or 6 weeks. No one wants to hear. You are supposed to move on.
Over the Christmas break I took my firstborn to her doctor. She had not been feeling right for a few months. She was anxious, sad and very tired. I had offered lists and strategies throughout the Fall, as I am prone to do, of sure fire ways to feel better. Nothing seemed to work. Because she is 20, I drop her at the doctors. I do not go in with her, I do not hold her lovingly on my lap, I do not speak for her, I do not protect her, I do not manage next steps. Instead, I go grocery shopping and hope for the best.
I have found, as it relates to separation, that our odometers are set at zero the moment we leave our marriage, in our minds.