I looked at him.
“I contributed more to that house than either of you seems willing to remember.”
Melissa gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“Oh my God. Are we seriously doing the house-money speech at a checkout line?”
The young cashier froze with both hands beside the register.
I could tell she wanted to disappear.
So did I.
But for completely different reasons.
Four years earlier, my husband, Henry, had died during an ordinary Tuesday morning.
He kissed me before leaving for the hardware store.
Twenty-three minutes later, he collapsed beside his truck in the parking lot.
By the time I reached the hospital, he was gone.
We had been married forty-three years.
The first months afterward existed only as fragments in my memory.
Unwashed coffee cups.
Unopened mail.
Condolence cards.
