The morning was bright, but my world had gone gray just hours before. I had just found out that Darren was gone.

The details were few, and that was probably for the best. All I knew was the how, and it was enough to shatter everything. Staying at the house wasn’t an option. The walls felt like they were closing in, the silence too loud. I felt a desperate, frantic need to be busy. To do something. Anything.

And so, we decided to meet somewhere. All of us. My parents, my sisters, their children, my husband, our kids, and me. We came for what, Lord knows. It wasn’t about the food or a reason. It was just a place to go, a way to move our bodies and occupy our minds.

The scene was a surreal mix of devastation and normalcy. My nerves were frayed, pulled tight as a guitar string. I looked at the quiet faces of my family, their eyes holding a shared sorrow. My parents sat with a quiet resolve, their presence a silent comfort. My husband just stood beside me, his presence a silent anchor in the chaos. There were no grand pronouncements of grief, no loud tears. Just the sound of a family existing together in a space that was entirely un-solemn.

For an hour or so, we simply existed. We had some breakfast and talked in hushed tones about nothing important. We were a little island of quiet grief in a sea of morning routines and fast-food bustle. I didn’t get any answers, and nothing felt fixed, but for a moment, the world felt a little less heavy.I’ve thought about that morning a lot since. The strangeness of it, the unexpected comfort in the fluorescent lights and plastic booths. It taught me that sometimes, the most profound moments of support aren’t found in solemn places, but in the quiet, mundane comfort of family just showing up, no questions asked, in a place we’d never have expected.