Morning sunlight slipped gently across our kitchen, turning the countertops the pale gold I had adored for 26 years. Anniversary mornings had always felt that way.
But Nolan had never been good at choosing gifts.
Across 26 years, I had opened a slow cooker, a winter coat two sizes too big, and once, a vacuum cleaner he insisted was “top of the line.”
I had learned to laugh after everything we had lost. Because 10 years earlier, we had lost our daughter, Emily. Her name lived inside a hallway drawer,
