At 3:45 on Christmas afternoon, after I had spent two days cooking dinner for my son and daughter-in-law, my doorbell finally rang. It wasn’t them. A courier handed me a manila envelope in Lauren’s handwriting: “We decided to spend Christmas at my mom’s house this year. Last minute change. Hope you understand.” My husband had been gone only nine months. By sunrise the next morning, I found another envelope hidden outside in Richard’s handwriting, and the message inside sent me straight to the desk he had told me not to touch.

Later because I understood I depended on it too.

I brushed ice from the little roof.

Something shifted behind one of the wooden braces.

At first I thought it was bark.

Then I saw the corner of a plastic sleeve wedged tightly into a protected space beneath the roof.

Inside was an envelope.

My name was written across the front.

Margaret.

No last name.

No address.

I would have known that handwriting anywhere.

“Richard?”

Saying his name into the empty yard felt foolish, but I said it anyway.

My fingers shook as I opened the plastic sleeve.

Inside the envelope was one line.

If you’re reading this, go to the desk. Top drawer.

I left the birdseed on the ground.

Richard’s study had remained almost untouched since March.

I dusted it.

Vacuumed around it.

Sometimes I sat in his chair.

But I had not gone through the drawers.