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 sat with six women, drank mediocre coffee, stitched one crooked seam, and listened to an argument about whether hand quilting was becoming a lost art.

It was ordinary.

That was exactly what I needed.

I returned the next week.

Then the week after that.

Irene visited the cedar house often.

She complained every time that the drive was inconvenient.

Then she made it anyway.

We sat on the porch drinking coffee.

Sometimes we talked about David.

Sometimes we talked about her knees, neighborhood gossip, recipes, gas prices, or whether Richard had planted the lilacs too close to the house.

David called in February.

“How are you?”

“I’m well.”

“Really?”

I let the word sit between us.

“Yes, David. Really.”

He cleared his throat.

“I got your letter.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t trying to take over your life.”

“You asked your father for access to our accounts.”

“I was trying to make things easier.”