He stopped going into the office except when absolutely necessary. His board covered for him until covering became impossible. His sister called. Friends texted. His housekeeper cried in the kitchen the first time she found him sitting at the dining table at three in the morning with a glass of water he had forgotten to drink.
The house on Queens Road—seven bedrooms, white stone, every luxury money could buy—became a mausoleum.
Eventually one of his attorneys, who had lost a son years earlier, put a therapist’s number in Mason’s hand and told him that surviving was not the same as living.
So Mason found himself, week after week, in the office of Dr. Richard Hale—a silver-haired grief specialist with a soft voice and the unnerving habit of seeing straight through performance.
One Thursday in early spring, after Mason had spent most of a session staring at the floor and answering questions like a hostile witness, Dr. Hale leaned back and said, “Tell me about the mountain house.”
Mason looked up sharply. “What?”
“You mention it whenever we get close to talking about your wife as a person instead of your wife as a loss.”
Mason said nothing.
Dr. Hale folded his hands. “Go there.”
“No.”
“Then tell me why not.”
“Because it was hers.” Mason laughed once without humor. “Because every board creaks with her memory. Because the porch still smells like her sunscreen in summer. Because she planted lavender by the steps and I can’t rip it out and I can’t look at it either. Pick a reason.”
Dr. Hale nodded as if that answer had only confirmed something. “You are trying to preserve your grief because it feels like preserving her.”
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