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.

I had worn it often enough over the years that he started calling it my Christmas dress.

“Here comes Christmas morning,” he would say whenever I walked downstairs in it.

That year I stood alone in front of the bathroom mirror, fastening the last button.

For one moment I could almost hear him.

I smiled.

Then I cried.

Then I fixed my lipstick and went downstairs because the potatoes still needed attention.

Dinner was set for three o’clock.

At 2:30, I sent David a text.

See you soon. Everything’s ready.

No reply.

I did not worry.

At three, I checked the driveway.

At 3:15, I told myself traffic was probably bad.

At 3:30, I put the rolls back in the oven because they had gone cold.

At 3:40, I checked my phone again.

Nothing.

At 3:45, the doorbell rang.

My heart rose so quickly that I laughed at myself.

“Finally.”

I hurried to the door.