Motherhood wakes you at strange hours. But grief wakes you differently. At 1, 2, 3 a.m., I look out the small bedroom windows searching the night sky for signs of my dad — a flicker, a star, a whisper that he’s still here somehow. In the Dead of Night holds that quiet ache: the way missing someone becomes a ritual, a conversation with the dark.
Motherhood wakes you at strange hours. But grief wakes you differently. At 1, 2, 3 a.m., I look out the small bedroom windows searching the night sky for signs of my dad — a flicker, a star, a whisper that he’s still here somehow. In the Dead of Night holds that quiet ache: the way missing someone becomes a ritual, a conversation with the dark.
