"Grief is a very private thing. You don't believe anyone will understand how you feel." Meredith dispenses wisdom from the bar top like a modern day delphi.
Laura hasn't experienced grief. She lost grandparents she never knew and watched her parents grieve in ways she couldn't understand but it all seemed so far away. As if it were on a stage.
She leans elbows on the bar and tries to imagine wrapping herself inpain like a blanket.
She remembers flying, taking a plane across the country and sleeping with her head against the side of her chair. Flying was escaping and getting far away fast. She used to want to keep running then, so maybe she understood how Dan felt.
She used to be scared. She felt inadequate and incapable as a parent and spouse. She never felt more alone than when she was at home with them - Jack, the kids, the nuclear family in a meltdown only no one had spotted the early warning signs. Jack was born to damage control, easing the fear and the uncertainty by with an ease that belied his lack of organisation in other areas of his life. She protected them the only way she could think of, by removing herself from the picture.
Grief is private so she doesn't intrude. She leaves a jar on the boat shed steps. She can cook now. It's an offering. Unappreciated no doubt, only she isn't quite sure what "looking after" means. This is the best she can do and she's never done it before.