As Henry slides the dust away from one of the many boxes, he starts to understand why his wife referred to the attic as an abomination. His wife, Laura, despised anything that wasn’t set with a purpose. She always stood up straight and always had her hair pinned up with a silver pin. Everything she did was for the people, and she never complained, never frowned, never thought twice about herself. 

Despite the fact that Laura did everything right in her life, she still had to die. Just like everyone else. She died peacefully, which is what made it worse for Henry. He reasoned that if she had died tragically, it would be fair for him to flail on the ground and scream until his face turned blue. Instead, she died in her sleep, sitting up with her reading glasses still on and her thumb tucked into the Bible as a bookmark. 

The funeral wasn’t the screaming kind. Everyone dabbed tissues on their dry cheeks and shakes his hand. His four kids sat quietly with their heads bowed, avoiding looking their father in the eye. Henry was begging for someone to give him the excuse to lash out. He wanted to feel big and be tongue-tied with anger. No one cared what he wanted, so he sat there with a slouched back. 

After Laura’s death, Henry saw the kindness she built die too.