part of my own body.
During those final months, Denise began visiting much more often.
She brought casseroles I never requested.
Old photographs.
Family albums.
Memories.
At first, I thought grief had simply made her sentimental.
One afternoon, she sat beside me flipping through an album until she stopped at an old photograph of herself and Walter as children.
They were standing outside their father’s house.
Denise smiled.
Then, almost casually, she asked,
“Is this house still in both your names, or only Walter’s?”
I barely thought about the question.
