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Our mothers used to joke that we looked more like sisters than friends.
The years passed.
I married Michael, and a few years later, Susan also got married, although she eventually divorced. When her marriage fell apart, I was there for her.
Or rather, we had always been there for each other.
Michael also treated her like a member of the family.
Susan would come to our house without warning. She knew where we kept the glasses, what kind of coffee Michael liked, and she even had a spare key to our house.
I never thought there was anything strange about that.
She was Susan.
My best friend.
That’s why, when I suggested spending a week together by the ocean that summer, I immediately agreed.
Michael had died almost a year earlier and, since his death, I had barely left the house.
Susan said to me:
“Linda, you need a few days just to breathe.”
