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.

And if they had, what did my son say?

She’s fine?

She understands?

She doesn’t mind?

People had been telling me I was strong since Richard died.

Sometimes I think strong is the word people use when they want permission not to worry about you.

I carried the food back to the kitchen.

Ham into one container.

Potatoes into another.

Green beans.

Sweet potatoes.

Rolls.

Each plastic lid snapped shut with a small click.

I left the pecan pie on the counter.

I do not know why.

Maybe I was tired of putting everything away because somebody else had decided not to come.

I turned off the Christmas music.

Blew out the candles.

Then I sat beneath the glow of the tree and looked toward the silver-framed photograph of Richard on the mantel.

It had been taken on our thirty-fifth anniversary. We were standing on a boardwalk by the ocean. His arm was around my shoulders, and both of us were squinting into the sun.