Sunday, May 7, 1:00 PM. Amy.

Church this morning. It’s good for us. Garrett has been leading it, but this morning I can tell he’s flagging. I don’t know how he’s bearing all this. He’s like Brewer, always moving forward, endless reserves of git-‘er-done. Except that at age 15, his reserves are bound to be far from endless. I tried to pitch in at church this morning, to sing, to speak up more. I’m not ready to pray. It feels like it would be a lie. The kids responded to me being more engaged; it was less like a funeral.

In general, I’m not as dysfunctional as I was. It’s been three weeks since he died, a week since the letters, and…damn it, you do start to adapt, to get used to it. The horror, for better or worse, becomes part of you, more comfortable.

We’re beginning to settle into a routine. I’m reading books for the kids’ bedtime again this week. For Claire and Trevor that was like sprinkling water on dry plants, although there was pain in their eyes too. They miss their Daddy doing it. I can’t do all the funny voices he did. But the stories are back, sweet moments of forgetfulness, of adventure, of borrowed and vicarious hope.

Trevor is having bad allergies. Claire hasn’t been talking much lately, and stays in her room a lot. I worry about her.

Beth is a doll, very easy and quiet and bright-eyed. She smiles a lot these days. She’s started doing tummy time and can lift her head. I’m doing better being her mom. I’ve asked Claire to tend her two nights a week so that I can get some rest. I feel bad asking, but I will truly go crazy if I have to be up literally every two hours week after week. Taking care of Beth actually seems to cheer her up. All three of them sleep in my room these days, all but Garrett.

No one feels like writing in their diaries much. It’s too painful.