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 read it once.

Then I put it in the drawer beside the refrigerator.

Irene had been watching.

“You all right?”

I looked through the doorway.

Oliver was attempting to balance a dinner roll on his head.

Gloria was telling Rachel that Richard had once tried to repair a washing machine and flooded half the basement.

Ben was pouring coffee.

Snow had begun falling again beyond the windows.

“I’m fine,” I said.

This time I meant it.

Later, the children pulled on coats and ran onto the porch.

I went outside carrying a glass of red wine.

Richard’s old rocking chair sat near the window.

I wrapped his blanket around my shoulders and sat down.

Through the glass, I could see the dining room.

Used plates.

Coffee mugs.

Crumbs.

People leaning toward each other in conversation.

One year earlier, I had sat in another house looking at two untouched place settings.