Forty-three years.
That was how long Harold and I had shared this kitchen, this table, and these mornings.
He had been soft-spoken and generous, always slipping out on Tuesday afternoons to “help with a thing,” but never bragging or explaining.
I never pressed him.
I thought that was the beauty of a long marriage.
You did not need to interrogate the good.
My phone rang, and Claire’s name lit up the screen.
“Mom,” she said, her voice breaking. “Can you come over? I really need you.”
“Are the kids okay? Is Dan okay?”
“Everyone’s fine. Please, I can’t say it over the phone.”
“I’m coming. Give me 15 minutes.”
She was crying when she hung up.
Out of habit, I pulled on Harold’s old cardigan before reaching for my jacket.
