We were sitting in a restaurant, the kind where conversation flows easily—stories, laughter, a sense of ease. At one point, someone asked how we ended up living here.
It’s a simple question. Harmless. Not unusual. But for homicide survivors sometimes these innocent questions open up Pandora’s box. We’re faced with a dilemma. Do I answer casually and deflect the truth? Do I feel safe enough to answer?
The first time around, I gave my new friends the short answer: “I moved here from Detroit. I’d never go back.”
Later, the gentleman circled back. Not casually, not out of idle curiosity—but with a kind of sincere attentiveness that’s hard to describe unless you’ve felt it.
“If you liked it there,” he asked, “why did you leave?”
There’s always a moment. A pause that no one else notices.
A quiet calculation that happens in an instant:
Do I give the simple answer… or the truthful one?
And if I choose truth—how much?
I explained that my husband had been murdered. That the press hounded me for over a year. That I needed a fresh start.
They looked stunned. Of course they did. I would have, too, in their shoes.
Later, he asked what had happened. I began the way I often do: “It’s complicated, but the shorter version is…” and then I spoke for several minutes. Not everything was shared. Not even close. But enough.
At one point, the waitress interrupted. I stopped mid-thought and waited. When she left, I looked back at them. They were still there—present, attentive, patiently ready to hear the rest.
That matters. Because we homicide survivors know that not all curiosity is the same. And we have to know.
Some questions feel unwarranted. Casual. Intrusive. They have that “true crime vibe.”
Others feel grounded. Respectful. Like someone is asking not just what happened, but what it meant to me; how it impacted me or stunned me.
That night, at the restaurant it felt like the second. Dare I say even safe?
And so I shared more than I typically do with people I barely know.
On the drive home, I asked my husband if I had said too much.
“It was just right,” he said.
I trust him. He doesn’t sugarcoat things.
There’s a particular dilemma that we who have lived through profound loss come to know well. It shows up in ordinary places:
“How many children do you have?” (Your child was killed.)
“Why did you move here?” (Your spouse was killed.)
“Are you an only child?” (Your sibling was killed.)
“What made you decide to join the seminary?” (Your parents were killed.)
On the surface, these are simple questions. But for some of us, they open entire nightmarish chapters, versions of our former lives that we will spend the rest of our lives growing around.
There is always that moment—the invisible pause—where we decide:
Do I make this easy?
Or do I make it accurate?
We live in a culture saturated with stories of murder. On screens, in headlines, sometimes as news and often as entertainment. And don’t even get me started on Halloween… People are used to it. They seek it out.
That is, until someone sitting across from you quietly discloses, “My friend/child/spouse/sibling/parent was murdered.”
Then the distance collapses.
It’s no longer a story. It’s no longer content. It’s no longer abstract entertainment. It’s real.
And the room abruptly changes.
For a long time, I thought of this part of my life as something I shared on a “need to know” basis only. But I’m not so sure that’s the right framework for me anymore, not after 40 years.
Most people don’t need to know.
But some people, in certain moments, feel like they are able to hold a piece of it.
Not because of how long I’ve known them—but because of how they show up:
- the quality of their attention
- the steadiness of their presence
- the absence of anything that feels casual or exploitative
So maybe it’s less about “need to know” and more about fit to know.
There are other settings where this dilemma shows up in a different form.
In a medical office, for example.
“Have you ever been depressed?” I pause. My smile evaporates.
It’s a checkbox question. Efficient. Standardized. Mechanical.
But the answer, for some of us, doesn’t fit neatly into a box.
I’ve answered that question different ways over the years.
Occasionally I translate:
“Situational grief after a traumatic loss, not ongoing depression.”
But more often, when the interaction feels especially flat, detached or mechanical, I match their tone and say, “Yes. After the murder of my spouse.”
And leave it dangling there.
It’s not said to provoke a response. It’s rarely received gracefully. There’s usually a moment of awkwardness, a kind of acute disorientation. Suddenly I’m a real person sitting in front of them.
That’s okay. I’m not looking to be comforted or understood in that moment.
I’m simply answering truthfully—even when the question wasn’t designed to hold the answer. In a way, that’s the point.
Over time, I’ve come to understand that this isn’t about getting it “right.” There’s no perfect answer to these questions.
Only a series of moments where we decide:
- how much to say
- how much to hold
- what belongs in this space—and what doesn’t
Sometimes the answer is brief and contained.
Sometimes, when the moment feels right, it expands a little.
And sometimes, the most honest answer doesn’t fit the question at all.
Like many survivors, I don’t always answer the question that’s asked. I answer the one that fits the moment. And I’ve learned to trust that.
