They say the first year after someone dies is the hardest.
You go through all the “firsts” — the first holidays, the first milestones — and you feel the loss all over again.

I couldn’t agree more.
I fucking hate it.

The Reminder That Broke Me

I know what some of you might be thinking: “Come on, Quinn. You and Kerry were broken up. Why are you still crying into your wine?”

And yeah, you’re right — we were over long before he died.
But here’s the thing: I still knew he was out there.
He was alive.
There’s comfort in that — a kind of background peace you don’t even realize you have until it’s gone.

It hit me for the first time in Duck Creek. I thought I was doing fine — or at least pretending well enough.

Then a family friend, drunk and well-intentioned, came into my trailer, put her hand on my chest, and through her tears, asked how I was doing.
She meant well.
But that simple act cracked something open.

I broke down.
Sat on my couch, crying, unable to go back outside.
That was it — the start of the “firsts.”

The Holidays

Then came Thanksgiving.

That one’s always tough. Kerry was the cook.
He took pride in every detail — the turkey injected with sweet white wine and butter, the homemade sides, the deviled eggs (which he hated but made for me anyway).

We used to host what we called “Homeless Thanksgiving” — for friends with nowhere else to go or no one who wanted them there.
Then later that night, we’d throw another party for those who did go home and now needed a drink.

He was good at it.
When I think about those days, I think about laughter, full plates, and a home that felt alive.

Christmas was even bigger.
Kerry went all out — Beef Wellington, his famous “poo-poo platter” of appetizers, and stuffed mushrooms that everyone loved.

He and I would spoil each other with gifts until one year we realized it was ridiculous.
So we switched to doing just stockings — and honestly, that was way more fun.

Our 14-foot Christmas tree filled the corner of the living room, covered in ornaments Kerry had hunted down at post-holiday sales.
Decorating was our thing.

When the Magic Faded

But as his drinking got worse, the holidays changed.
The joy turned into tension.
The laughter turned into silence.

About four years before he died, the pattern started — Kerry would leave right before Thanksgiving and disappear through New Year’s.
I’d beg him to come home, and he never would.

That’s when I started to hate the holidays.
And honestly, my birthday too.

Reclaiming the Season

Now, I do the cooking.
I’ve taken back Thanksgiving — three years in a row now.

No “drunk turkey” for me.
I brine it overnight and roast it perfectly. And damn it, it’s good.

Christmas Eve, too — I’ve made that my own again.
Belinda lives nearby now, and we’ve built new traditions together.
I don’t do Beef Wellington. I do prime rib in the roaster, and every year, it’s amazing.

I’m reclaiming my holidays, one meal at a time.
I’m even taking back my birthday — though this year, I’ll admit, it’s harder. The mood just hasn’t been there.

But that’s okay. That’s part of it.

Grief doesn’t leave.
It just changes shape.

And this year, I’m learning how to live with it — without the wine-soaked tears, without the old ghosts hovering in the kitchen — just me, standing on the edge, figuring out what life looks like on my own terms.

— Standing on the Edge