They tell you that blood is an unbreakable tether. They swear that family is the safety net waiting to catch you when the floorboards of your life suddenly rot away. I used to subscribe to that comforting delusion. My name is Sarah. Not so long ago, I lost my husband, Michael, to an aggressive, unapologetic strike of liver cancer. When the earth finally stopped crumbling, it was just me and my ten-year-old daughter, Lily. My spirit was entirely shattered, pulverized into a fine dust, and that was precisely when my family moved in to sweep up the pieces.
The moment the heart monitor flatlines, every person in your orbit suddenly earns an honorary Ph.D. in grief counseling. You need a change of scenery, Sarah. You have to stay strong for the kid. You can’t just evaporate into your living room.
The voices became a persistent, droning choir, eventually drowning out my own instincts. It had been eight agonizing weeks since Michael was lowered into the ground. We had built Timber & Bean from an absolute fever dream into an empire. What started as a drafty, exposed-brick coffee shop in downtown Seattle—where Michael used to stubbornly insist on hand-pouring every macchiato—had metastasized into twenty-seven prime locations across the Pacific Northwest. I was now the sole proprietor of a multi-million-dollar enterprise.
