In the months since my father died, I have heard the same question over and over again: “Are you really okay?” Most of the time it is a genuine question, although sometimes it is dutifully asked as a perfunctory exercise of social graces. Either way, my answer is always the same: “I’m really okay.” I always have been, even if I didn’t understand why. But the parade of confused looks and barely hidden disbelief at my unconventional reaction made me start to think that everyone else knew something I didn’t. Was I actually in denial like many suggested? Was I suppressing my own heartbreak…
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