The church basement smelled like mildew and disappointment. Jerry Callahan stood at the bottom of the stairs, two months after his wife and daughter died in their sleep because he'd forgotten to change the batteries in the carbon monoxide detector.
His therapist had suggested group work. Sharing with others who understand. The folding chairs were arranged in a circle. The coffee urn sat on a table. A hand-lettered sign read: NEW BEGINNINGS — GRIEF SUPPORT — THURSDAYS 7PM. Margaret was old—ancient, really, but her eyes were too bright for someone her age. The others introduced themselves. Daniel, who lost his mother. Patricia, whose husband died twenty years ago. Harold. Emma. They listened when Jerry spoke.
They leaned forward. They seemed so interested in his pain. So hungry for the details. When he described finding his family, when he admitted the batteries were his fault, when the guilt finally spilled out of him—the room changed. The faces around him looked less gray. Their eyes looked brighter. And when he tried to leave, when he turned toward the stairs... The stairs were gone.
