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.

“Handled what badly?”

“Christmas.”

“You mean when you let me cook dinner for you, waited until I was sitting at the table, and then sent a stranger with a note?”

He looked away.

“Lauren thought a card might be less upsetting than calling.”

That answer was so absurd I almost laughed.

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Did you think it would be less upsetting?”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I should have called.”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

I waited.

He looked toward the folder in my hand.

There it was.

Half a second.

Maybe less.

But I saw it.

“What else?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“David.”

He shifted his weight.

“I’ve been thinking about Dad’s paperwork.”

“Of course you have.”

“What does that mean?”

“You tell me.”

“Mom, there could be accounts, insurance, investments, tax documents. Stuff you might not even know exists.”

“I’ve handled it.”

“I know, but these things get complicated.”