And then, three months after our thirty-ninth anniversary, Thomas died in our living room with a teacup still warm beside him.
A heart attack.
Quick, everyone said.
Merciful, they said.
As if the speed of a loss had anything to do with its size.
After the funeral, people filled my refrigerator, squeezed my hands, and told me to call if I needed anything. Then they went home to their still-living husbands, and my house became unbearably quiet.
Grief is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is just standing in the laundry room holding one of his socks and forgetting why you went in there.
I started sorting through his things because I did not know what else to do. His watches. His old ties. The drawer full of batteries he insisted were “still good.” Every object felt both sacred and stupid. I would cry over a sweater and feel nothing at all while packing away a suit he wore to our daughter’s wedding.
And every time I walked down the hallway, I saw it.
The closet at the very end.
Locked. Always.
In thirty-nine years, I had never once seen inside it.
