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 young man in a dark windbreaker stood on my porch holding a manila envelope.

He looked twenty-five at most.

“Margaret Ellis?”

“Yes.”

“This is for you.”

I stared at him.

“From whom?”

He glanced at the label.

“Looks like it was arranged through a local delivery service. That’s all I’ve got, ma’am.”

My name was written across the front in Lauren’s looping handwriting.

For a second, I did not understand.

Lauren had my address.

Lauren had my phone number.

So did David.

They were expected in my house.

Why had somebody paid a stranger to bring me an envelope?

I opened it while standing in the doorway.

Inside was a card.

Margaret,

We’re so sorry. We decided to spend Christmas at my mom’s house this year. Last-minute change. Hope you understand.

Love,
Lauren

I read it twice.

Then once more.

No illness.

No emergency.