in a small framed picture Nolan had quietly turned face-down one winter and never turned upright again.
I had seen it happen, but I said nothing.
We no longer said her name aloud.
Recently, though, Nolan had seemed distant. He went on longer walks after dinner. He answered phone calls on the back porch with the door shut. Once, I found him staring at that face-down frame in the hallway, his coffee cold in his hand.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Just tired, Liv.”
I let it pass.
That morning, he
