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.

Irene laughed so hard at one of Gloria’s stories that she had to remove her glasses and wipe her eyes.

I looked around the room.

A good table after a meal is not beautiful in the way magazines think beauty should look.

Napkins wrinkle.

Glasses are half empty.

Crumbs scatter.

Serving dishes sit crooked.

A table after a good meal looks used.

I had never understood how lovely that could be.

Around three o’clock, a mail truck stopped near the road.

A few minutes later, I brought a small stack of envelopes inside.

The top one was cream-colored.

My name was written across it in David’s handwriting.

For a moment, the noise behind me seemed to recede.

I opened it.

Merry Christmas, Mom.

Hope you’re doing well.

David and Lauren.

That was all.

No apology.

No invitation.

No mention of what had happened one year earlier.