Her six-year-old pointed at me over a paper plate of garlic bread and asked, “Mama, can we keep him?” Cynthia’s face changed instantly. At the time, I thought she was embarrassed. By the next morning, I understood she was scared of something else entirely.
Three weeks after my wife died, I moved through each day like I was following instructions somebody else had left behind. Wake up because morning came whether I wanted it to or not. Walk the shore because staying inside made the walls feel closer. Eat because by late afternoon my hands would start to shake…
