My dad died in a car accident three months ago.

We do miss him a lot, especially mom. She was with him driving the car when the accident happened, but she survived. At his funeral, I was lost looking through his memorial photos until my girlfriend nudged me to go see mom. I found her lying next to his body, gently caressing his face and fixing his hat.

She asked me to take a photo of them when she saw me, and I did.

We ended the funeral shortly after that.

Grief has no timeline, and everyone copes with it differently, I understand that. But mom slept for three days straight afterward, refusing anything for food or drink.

So before I drove back to college, I asked mom's neighbor, aunt Sarah, to check on her and keep her company. I was glad to see the understanding on her face.

For weeks I checked on mom every day. And checked on her with aunt Sarah, too. But aunt Sarah only kept reporting countless worsening conditions at home and that she couldn't be of help any longer.

I get it.

But when mom stopped answering my calls, I knew something had to change.

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I shared my worries with my girlfriend, and she offered to clean mom's house while I took mom on a getaway. I immediately booked us a weekend stay at a hotel by the beach.

And today I drove my girlfriend to mom's house with a kiss on her forehead and the deepest gratitude in my heart.

Then picked up mom with the hope this trip will bring her some peace of mind.

Mom isn’t the type to be this quiet on car rides, but she seems content with the bag in her lap.

I get it.

Now I am driving us to the hotel. One of her favorite songs playing on the radio. She is happily humming it while rummaging through her bag next to me and fiddling with dad’s hat. I turn the overhead light on for her.

“You look just like your dad,” she tells me, right before we reach the hotel. “This hat will fit you well as well.”

Then my eyes trail to her bag. Dad had a knack for wearing good clothes, and this hat would suit me just fine.

Mom lifts the hat again. And I see it on top of something dry and appalling to behold.

“Your dad said we’d stay together till death do us part,” she says, lifts the head, and looks into its blacked eyes. “But we’re not both dead yet, are we, my love?.”

She then looks back at me, and I start to feel dizzy. Her face curls into a teary smile as she puts dad’s severed head closer to her face.

“Be so dear and take a photo of us.”

Then I hear some commotion. I look in front of me. A flash of light blinds me before everything goes quiet.