I caught myself laughing out loud tonight. Really laughing, like a proper, uninhibited guffaw, at some ridiculously inane punchline on a sitcom. And then the silence after it, the way the sound just hung there in the empty living room, hit me like a physical blow. Three months. Three months since Marge passed. Three months, and I'm here, cackling at a television. I mean I don't even — whatever. It’s not just the laughing itself, not really. It’s the sheer, unadulterated *audacity* of it. The way my body, my mind, just… forgot. Forgot for a split second, that everything is different now. That I’m alone. I think we, as humans, are programmed for survival above all else. It's a cruel mercy, isn't it? This relentless push towards normalcy, even when normalcy feels like a betrayal. I spent decades, *decades*, making a home, raising kids, pouring myself into the everyday fabric of another person’s life. Marge was my anchor, my compass, the very air I breathed. My identity was so intertwined with hers, with *ours*, that I sometimes wonder if there's any 'me' left, just… me. And now, this unexpected laugh, this almost joyous outburst, feels like a traitorous whisper from some forgotten part of myself, a part that apparently still wants to be amused. It's unsettling. Terribly unsettling. And the guilt, oh, the guilt is a heavy, smothering blanket. Every single day, every day, I feel this immense pressure to grieve 'correctly,' whatever that means. To wear my sorrow like a badge of honor. To prove to myself, to some unseen jury, that I loved her enough, that I miss her enough. But then a laugh escapes, or a moment of peace settles, and it’s like I’ve failed some crucial test. I don't know who this person is, this man who can find humor in a world without Marge. I barely recognize him. And the terrifying thing is, a part of me, a tiny, selfish, insistent part, is a little curious about him.