the living room and said all the things children say when grief is fresh and everyone is watching.
“We’ll get through this together, Mom,” Laura promised.
“You’re not going to be alone,” Michael said.
Fiona cried against my shoulder and whispered, “We’ll take care of you.”
For a little while, they almost did.
Laura brought casseroles.
Michael mowed the lawn.
Fiona visited with the children, and for a few noisy hours, the house sounded alive again.
Then I became inconvenient.
The phone calls grew shorter.
The visits became less frequent.
