Updated Nov 27, 2025 • ~8 min read
Six months after the trial, Poppy’s therapist suggested something new.
“I think you might benefit from a grief support group,” Dr. Dianna Berkley said during their weekly video session. “Specifically, one for people who’ve lost relationships to trauma.”
“I didn’t lose a relationship. I escaped one.”
“And you’re grieving what you thought you had. The future you believed in. The man you loved who never actually existed.” Dr. Berkley’s voice was gentle. “That’s a valid loss, Poppy. It deserves to be mourned.”
Poppy had resisted at first. The idea of sitting in a circle, sharing her story with strangers, felt vulnerable in a way even therapy didn’t.
But she agreed to try. Once.
The group met Thursday evenings at a community center in Portland. Poppy drove up from the coast, arriving five minutes late so she wouldn’t have to make small talk beforehand.
Eight people sat in a circle—mix of ages and genders, all carrying their own invisible wounds. The facilitator, a woman named Genesis Mitchell, smiled warmly as Poppy took the last available chair.
“Welcome. We’re just starting introductions. I’m Genesis, and I facilitate this group for people grieving complicated losses. Would you like to introduce yourself?”
“I’m Poppy.” She swallowed. “I’m here because my fiancé turned out to be a murderer, and I’m apparently supposed to grieve the relationship even though it was built on lies.”
The words came out more hostile than intended.
But instead of judgment, she saw understanding. Nods. A few sad smiles.
“Thank you for sharing that,” Genesis said. “Complicated grief often comes with anger. That’s completely normal.”
The others introduced themselves. A man whose wife had died by suicide after hiding depression for years. A woman whose father turned out to have a secret second family. A younger guy whose best friend had been killed by a drunk driver—the friend had been the drunk driver.
Everyone carried losses that were tangled with betrayal, secrets, or moral complexity.
Losses you couldn’t mourn cleanly because they were mixed with anger and confusion and sometimes relief.
“Who wants to share this week?” Genesis asked once introductions finished.
A woman named Valeria spoke first. Her husband had died in a car accident—caused by him texting while driving. She was grieving him while also furious at the choice that killed him and nearly killed their daughter.
“I miss him,” Valeria said, her voice thick. “But I’m also so angry I can barely breathe sometimes. And people don’t understand how you can feel both. They want me to either mourn him or condemn him. But it’s both. It’s always both.”
Poppy felt that in her bones.
Missing Dominick—or the version of him she’d believed in—while also hating him for what he’d done. Grieving the future they’d planned while being grateful it never happened.
Both. Always both.
“I understand that,” Poppy found herself saying. “The contradictions. I have nightmares about my ex. But sometimes in the dreams, he’s the good version. The one I fell in love with. And I wake up missing him, which makes me feel crazy because I know what he really is.”
“It’s not crazy,” Genesis assured her. “You’re grieving the person you thought he was. That person was real to you, even if he never actually existed. Your feelings for him were real.”
“But they were based on lies.”
“Your feelings were still real. He’s the liar. Not you.”
Something in Poppy’s chest cracked open at that. Permission to mourn what she’d lost without invalidating her anger at how she lost it.
The group continued. Others shared their stories, their contradictions, their complicated grief.
And Poppy felt less alone than she had in months.
After the session ended, people lingered, chatting. Valeria approached Poppy with two cups of tea from the community center’s kitchen.
“First time?” she asked, offering one.
“Is it obvious?”
“You have that look. Like you can’t believe you’re here. Like this isn’t your life.” Valeria smiled sadly. “We all had that look once.”
“How long have you been coming?”
“Two years. After Daniel died.” She sipped her tea. “At first, I thought I’d come a few times, check the box, move on. But the group… it helps. Being around people who understand the mess of it.”
“Does it get easier? The contradictions?”
“Not easier. But more manageable. You learn to hold both truths at once without them destroying you.”
Poppy wanted to believe that. Wanted to imagine a future where she could acknowledge what she’d felt for Dominick without shame, while also never forgetting what he’d done.
“He writes me letters,” Poppy admitted. “From prison. I’ve blocked him now, but for months, he kept trying to reach out. Apologizing but not really. Explaining but not actually taking responsibility.”
“Mine is dead and I still hear his excuses,” Valeria said. “The voice in my head that sounds like him, telling me I’m overreacting. That it was just one text, one moment of distraction, could happen to anyone.”
“Do you ever believe it?”
“Sometimes. Then I remember our daughter’s injuries. The other car he hit. The choice he made that ended everything.” She set down her tea. “The voice gets quieter. But it’s still there.”
“I’m afraid that’s all I’ll ever have. Dominick’s voice in my head, arguing with my truth.”
“That’s why you keep coming to group. To hear other voices. Ones that validate your reality instead of distorting it.”
Poppy went back the next week. And the week after that.
Slowly, the group became a space where she could voice all the contradictory feelings she was afraid to say anywhere else.
“I miss how safe I felt with him, even though I was never actually safe.”
“Sometimes I wish I’d never found out. That I’d married him and lived in ignorant bliss.”
“I’m angry at Rosa for being perfect. For being the ideal I couldn’t match. Even though she was a victim too and deserves no blame.”
“I don’t know if I can trust my own judgment anymore. If I was that wrong about Dominick, how can I trust that I’m right about anything else?”
The group held all of it. Never judged. Never tried to fix or minimize.
Just witnessed and validated and reminded her that complex feelings were allowed.
In week eight, Genesis introduced a new exercise. “I want you to write a letter to your loss. Not to the person—to the loss itself. What do you want to say to it?”
Poppy spent the week drafting and redrafting. Finally, she brought this:
Dear Grief,
I hate you. I hate that you exist. That I have to carry you while also trying to rebuild my life.
You’re inconvenient. You show up at the worst times—middle of the night, during dates with Miles, when I’m trying to work. You don’t care about my schedule or my healing timeline.
You make me feel crazy. One minute I’m fine, the next I’m crying over a song that reminds me of Dominick. Or angry at something unrelated. Or numb to everything.
But I’m starting to understand you.
You’re not punishment. You’re processing. The price of having loved, even if that love was misplaced.
You’re proof that I’m human. That I feel deeply, trust openly, invest wholly in relationships.
Dominick tried to make me doubt those qualities. Tried to make me see my openness as weakness, my trust as naivety.
But you—grief—you remind me that those qualities are strengths. That the problem wasn’t my capacity to love. It was his capacity to manipulate.
So I’m making peace with you. Not welcoming you, exactly. But accepting you.
You’re part of my story now. Part of who I’m becoming.
A woman who survived. Who grieved. Who kept going anyway.
I don’t need you to leave. I just need you to stop drowning me.
Can we work on that?
—Poppy
She read it aloud to the group, her voice shaking.
When she finished, there was silence. Then Valeria started clapping. Slowly, others joined in.
“That’s it,” Genesis said, her eyes bright. “That’s the work. Making space for grief without letting it consume you.”
After group that night, as Poppy walked to her car, her phone buzzed. Miles.
Miles: How was group?
She’d told him about it on their last date. Been terrified he’d think it was too much, too broken, too complicated.
Instead, he’d said, “That sounds really healthy. I’m glad you have that support.”
Poppy: Hard but good. I’m glad I went.
Miles: Proud of you. Still on for Saturday? I’m attempting homemade ravioli.
Poppy: Wouldn’t miss it.
She drove back to the coast feeling lighter. Not healed—that would take time. But healing.
Learning to hold space for all of it. The love she’d felt and the lies she’d believed. The life she’d lost and the freedom she’d gained.
The grief that reminded her she was human.
And the hope that whispered she could try again.
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