The Weight of Silence - Stories of an Upside-Down Kingdom

Story Two: The Weight of Silence

The casserole dishes stopped coming after the third week.

At first, Margaret counted them without meaning to foil lids stacked on the counter, handwritten labels in unfamiliar handwriting, the smell of sympathy baked into every meal. People knocked softly, spoke gently, and avoided her eyes in a way that felt practiced.

She thanked them all. Every time.

By week four, the house was quiet again.

Too quiet.

Margaret woke before the alarm most mornings now. Not because she was rested she wasn’t but because sleep no longer held her the way it used to. She lay still in the dark, listening to the house settle, waiting for something to interrupt the silence.

Nothing did.

She eventually swung her legs out of bed and stood there longer than necessary, staring at the empty space on the other side. The indent in the mattress had begun to fade. That bothered her more than it should have.

In the kitchen, she poured coffee she barely tasted and sat at the table with her hands wrapped around the mug, as if warmth alone might anchor her.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from church.

Just checking in. Let us know if you need anything.

Margaret read it once. Then again.

She didn’t reply.

At the grocery store, she found herself standing in front of the cereal aisle longer than usual. Two boxes sat in her cart one she always bought, one he used to insist on even though she hated it.

She stared at the second box.

People passed behind her, carts squeaking, life moving forward without pause or permission.

She put the box back.

Her chest tightened, unexpectedly sharp.

In the parking lot, she sat in her car and cried not loudly, not dramatically but the kind of crying that left her exhausted afterward, the kind that came without warning and left without explanation.

She wiped her face, straightened her shoulders, and drove home.

There were still things to do.

Margaret had always been reliable.

She showed up. She served. She filled gaps without being asked. Grief didn’t erase that part of her it just made it heavier.

On Sunday mornings, she took her usual seat near the back. People smiled when they saw her. Some hugged her too tightly. Others avoided her altogether, unsure what to say.

She preferred the ones who said nothing.

The songs felt longer now. The words harder to hold. She sang sometimes. Other times she stood silent, staring at the floor, listening to the room breathe around her.

After service, someone always asked, “How are you doing?”

She learned which answer ended the conversation fastest.

“I’m okay.”

It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the truth.

One afternoon, Margaret drove without a destination.

She ended up at the cemetery without realizing she was headed there.

The gravel crunched under her tires as she parked and sat for a moment, hands still on the wheel. The sky was overcast, the air heavy but not threatening rain.

She walked slowly, reading names she didn’t know, dates that felt too close together.

When she reached his stone, she stopped.

She hadn’t planned to speak. She never did.

But the words came anyway.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she said quietly.

The wind moved through the trees. Somewhere nearby, a bird called out, then went silent.

Margaret sat on the ground, knees pulled close, and stayed there longer than she meant to.

Nothing resolved.

Nothing lifted.

But for the first time since the funeral, she didn’t feel rushed to stand up.

The following week, after church.

She sat in her living room with the curtains half-open, letting the afternoon light fall where it wanted. Dust floated lazily in the air. She noticed it now, the small things she used to clean without thinking.

Her phone rang.

She let it go to voicemail.

Later, she listened.

“Hey, Margaret. It’s Anna. I was thinking about you. No need to call back. Just wanted you to know I’m here.”

Margaret set the phone down and stared at it.

She didn’t feel better.

But she felt seen.

That night, she pulled a box from the closet the one she’d avoided since the service. Inside were ordinary things. A watch that no longer ticked. A folded note she didn’t remember reading. A receipt from a place they used to go.

She held each item carefully, as if they might break.

Tears came again, slower this time.

She didn’t fight them.

When the box was empty, she sat there on the floor, surrounded by proof that love had existed and still did, even if it hurt now.

She didn’t pray.

Not in words, anyway.

She just stayed.

Weeks passed.

Margaret still showed up. Still cooked. Still answered messages when she had the strength.

Some days were lighter. Others felt just as heavy as the first.

She stopped apologizing for leaving early. For saying no. For needing space.

One evening, she returned to the cemetery at dusk. She stood quietly, hands in her coat pockets, breath visible in the cooling air.

“I miss you,” she said.

It wasn’t a revelation.

It didn’t change anything.

But it was honest.

As she turned to leave, the path ahead was dim but visible enough to walk.

That felt like enough for now.

Grief didn’t disappear.

It didn’t teach her a lesson.

It didn’t make her stronger.

But it slowed her.

Softened her.

Taught her how to sit with pain without demanding it hurry.

And somehow without her being able to name when it happened she learned this:

She wasn’t alone in the mourning.

Even in the silence.

Inspired by: Matthew 5:4