Masking Grief Novels & Stories

"Do you take this woman to be your wife, to stand by her through thick and thin?" "I do," the man said, his voice muffled by the mask. The guests whispered in awe. Howard Larson, the Larson family's big shot, was so in love with me that he would not let a bad cold stop our big day. He did not want to disappoint me. "Wait a second." The man's eyes darted around, and his forehead was dotted with sweat. I smiled and asked, "Howard, you're looking a bit pale. Too busy with the wedding to remember your medicine?"

Those eyes are not just angry, they’re dangerous. But what do I know? Maybe he’s wearing contact lenses. Maybe this is just one of his ways of grieving. People mourn in all kinds of strange, aching ways. I once had a client who shaved his head and stayed bald for an entire year after his wife died of cancer, he said it was his way of sharing her pain. I won’t let his whatever-this-is scare me. I’ll try my best to comfort him. We might not be on the best terms, but this… this is something I can do for anyone I care about, even a little.

I looked at my girls and wore the mask again after years of hiding it in our closet. “Mommy it fits you!” Chelsey pointed the mirror to my side. I smiled at the girl in the mirror before looking back at my family. “Guys, let me tell you a story of a girl behind the mask.” The end. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Ethan and Jessy's story is now out! Just search My little secrets...

My fingers fumbled with it, frustration boiling over as I tried to get the knot right. “Dammit,” I muttered under my breath. I stared at myself in the mirror, the reflection of a man who barely looked like himself. Dark circles under my eyes, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched. Marcus would’ve laughed if he saw me struggling with a tie. He always tied mine for me when we were younger. I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn’t do this. But I had to. The funeral home was packed, but it didn’t feel personal. The air was thick with hushed voices, polite condolences, the quiet shuffling of feet. A deep, suffocating kind of grief hung over the room, but it wasn’t the kind that came from losing someone close.

The atmosphere was heavy with grief, each mourner wearing their sorrow like a cloak. As I walked toward my parents, their eyes met mine, revealing the depth of their pain. My mother's eyes, once vibrant and filled with love, now held a profound sadness. Her face, etched with lines of worry, displayed the weight of a mother's loss. My father, usually composed and strong, seemed to have aged overnight. The grief had etched itself upon his features, casting a shadow over his usual resilience.

"I have the appointment with Dr. Reyes this week. I've been thinking about what I want to actually—work on. Not just what sounds correct to say to a therapist." Maryann set her fork down. Giving me her attention. "I've been treating grief like something happening to me," I said. "Like weather. Like I just have to wait for it to pass and there's nothing to actively do. But it's been two years and it hasn't passed and Lily is growing up with a father who's somewhere in the past most of the time and you almost died in a hospital because I was so—" I stopped. Organized it. "I need to actually work on it. Not just acknowledge that I should."

"I'm working through—" "Fear." She interrupted gently. "Grief. The terror that loving someone again means risking the same loss that nearly destroyed you." Her expression softened. "We understand, Kael. Truly. We also know why. Grief makes cowards of us all sometimes. Makes us clutch past pain like armor." "It's not cowardice to be cautious."

he said, “and I could not tell if I was myself or some old version of me I thought I buried.” Everyone listened. “It felt like walking around inside a skin that did not belong to me anymore. Like I was wearing someone else’s clothes and everyone could see the fit was wrong.” He paused. “I think grief can be that too. Not loud or sharp. Just the feeling that you do not fit inside your own life.” The room grew quiet. Sarah whispered, “Yes. That is exactly how it feels.” Jaxon lowered his gaze, and his curls fell forward. For once, he looked entirely unguarded.

Ready to focus on my own growth. Instead I felt hollowed out. Like I had cut away something essential and was waiting to see if I could function without it. Dr. Chen would say this was normal. That grief was part of letting go. That I was mourning the loss of connection, not the loss of Maya herself. She would probably be right. I opened my notebook. Started writing. Day one of making Maya inaccessible. The silence is deafening. I keep reaching for my phone to check news. To see updates. To know how she is doing. Then I remember I blocked everything. That I chose this. That this is necessary.

“You’re telling me because—” “Because I have been treating you like a problem to be solved,” she said. “And that isn’t fair, and it isn’t useful. I have also been treating you like a promise I cannot afford to lose. That is…” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “That is what grief looks like when it thinks it’s a virtue.”