their birthdays, and be present when we made plans together. I wasn’t going to make those plans by having someone announce them for me.
I checked my dentist appointment, wrote my book-club date back on the calendar, and texted Martha to ask about Santa Fe. She sent a picture of a dessert we’d once loved and said I should come next time. I told her I intended to. The word “next” felt less like a polite promise than it had when I’d been living by Claire’s notes.
There were practical
