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.

On the mantel were photographs.

Our wedding.

David at four years old holding a fishing pole twice his height.

A summer at the lake.

Our twenty-fifth anniversary.

A photograph of me kneeling in the garden that I did not remember anyone taking.

I moved slowly from room to room.

It did not feel as though Richard had hidden another life.

It felt as though he had stored pieces of ours.

In the kitchen, the cabinets held simple supplies.

Coffee.

Canned soup.

Rice.

Tea.

Paper towels.

A jar of peanut butter.

Two mugs sat upside down near the sink.

One said WORLD’S OKAYEST HUSBAND.

I had given it to Richard as a joke.

I put my hand over my mouth.

On the coffee table was another note.

This is yours if they ever forget who you are.

I lowered myself into his chair.

For months after Richard died, I had been angry with him in ways I never admitted.