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.

He had struggled too.

I opened the journal again.

A few entries later, I found the house.

Bought the cedar place.

Margaret would kill me if she knew what I paid, although she’d probably spend the first ten minutes admiring the porch.

Maybe someday we’ll use it together.

If not, I want her to have somewhere that belongs only to her.

The next pages explained the furniture.

The quilt.

The coffee table.

The photographs.

Every few weeks, Richard had taken something there.

Nothing I used daily.

Nothing I would immediately miss.

He had been building the place slowly.

A backup plan.

A refuge.

Something separate from the home David had always assumed would eventually become part of his own future.

Then I found an entry dated just after the previous Christmas, the night David and Lauren had arrived late and already full.

Margaret wore the red dress again.