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.

A memory of taking David to the Grand Canyon when he was thirteen and watching him insist he was not afraid of heights while refusing to stand within twenty feet of the railing.

I laughed.

Then the entries changed.

Richard wrote about his health.

Not poetically.

He hated dramatic language.

Tired today.

Doctor wants another test.

Margaret thinks I’m sleeping when she checks on me.

She is not nearly as sneaky as she thinks.

I laughed again.

Then I turned the page.

David asked about our estate plan again.

Said it would be easier if he knew where everything was.

Maybe he means well.

I don’t like how often the subject comes up.

A later entry mentioned Lauren.

Lauren said older people sometimes stay in houses longer than they should because they’re sentimental.

Interesting thing to say while sitting in our house eating Margaret’s pie.

I could almost hear Richard saying it.