I messaged our family group chat: «My flight arrives at 3PM—could anyone come get me?» I’d recently laid my husband to rest abroad. My brother responded…

I sent the message right after takeoff. Group chat. No dramatic punctuation.
 
No desperate emojis. Just, flight lands at 3pm. Can someone pick me up? I’d just buried my husband.
 
A military funeral. Overseas. Folded flag.
 
21 guns. A casket that felt heavier than anything I’ve ever carried, though I wasn’t the one lifting it. We’d been married for years.
 
Most of those spent apart. Deployments don’t care about anniversaries. But love doesn’t keep receipts.
 
So I didn’t ask for much. Just a ride home. The reply came before we even reached cruising altitude.
 
My brother. We’re busy, try Uber. Then two minutes later.
 
My mom. Why didn’t you plan better? No. How was the funeral? No, we’re so sorry.
 
No, we’re proud of him. Just that. Cold.
 
Fast. Clean. I sat by the window.
 
The plane lifting above the clouds. And stared into the kind of silence that doesn’t come from grief. It comes from realization.
 
You think family holds you. But sometimes, they hold the knife. So, I typed one sentence back.
 
No worries. That was it. No fight.
 
No guilt trip. Just silence. When we landed, I didn’t cry…