Isit in the dusty office of a therapist. it's been a year or so since my mom died. i'm rambling, somewhat incoherently, about a fight with my dad. he told me that grief isn't real, i tell her.
i'd just relayed a story of how, recently, after a long day at school, my dad and i were driving in his car. i was crying. i can't remember what started the tears, just that i was upset and flailing around in the seat, the safety belt a straitjacket. don't you miss her? don't you miss mommy? i'd shouted at him as he wheeled through a turn.
it's been a year since she died. this is all in your head, he'd told me.
in that moment, i refused to let him define my grief. i shouted. screamed, kicked at his car rugs. said i wished he were the one who'd died.
maybe it's a cultural thing, the therapist offers.

how do paragraphs 10-14 contribute to chow’s depiction of grief?