The couple in the paint aisle, bickering about eggshell versus ivory. The woman on the bus saying "okay mum, I'll call you Sunday" like it's nothing. Whole crowds of people rich beyond counting in the exact currency you just lost - and none of them know it.
The envy is sharp, a little shaming, and almost never confessed. So here it is confessed for you: nearly everyone grieving feels it. It isn't wishing strangers harm. It's your loss doing inventory in public - every ordinary phone call you witness is an audit of the ones you can't make anymore. Envy is grief pricing what it lost. The bitterness is just accuracy.
You don't need to fight it or feel ashamed of it. Notice it, name it - "there it is; that's the missing" - and let it move through. It usually passes faster named than fought. And skip what you can while it's sharp: mute the feeds full of intact families, decline the event you know will be a two-hour audit. That's not weakness; it's dosage.
Strangest of all, the envy carries a gift in its teeth: it knows exactly what mattered. The paint aisle, the Sunday call - the little stuff was the treasure, and you know it now at a depth most people never reach. That knowledge hurts. It's also theirs, left to you.