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.

That was the only explanation I could understand.

He had never mentioned it.

My husband had been terrible at keeping surprises. Once he bought me a bracelet for our anniversary, hid it in the garage, then reminded me three separate times not to look inside one particular toolbox.

How had that man kept a house from me?

And why?

The answer sat forty-two minutes away according to my phone.

By ten that morning, I had packed an overnight bag.

One change of clothes.

Toiletries.

Flashlight.

Phone charger.

Thermos of coffee.

Richard believed nobody should drive anywhere in winter without gloves, water, a blanket, and enough snacks to survive a blizzard.

I used to tease him about it.

That morning, I packed the blanket.

The drive carried me along roads bordered by bare maples and old stone walls half buried under snow.

Traffic thinned after I left the highway.

The final turn took me down a gravel lane with pines on both sides.