anniversary, every birthday, every ordinary evening in my little house had happened while my husband existed somewhere else.
Without me.
I looked at the card again.
Adrian lied.
Adrian had remained loosely connected to my life for decades.
He attended both my parents’ funerals.
He mailed Christmas cards every year until his hands grew too shaky to write.
And he was the man who had sat across from me at twenty-three years old and told me James was almost certainly dead.
I reached for the telephone.
Then stopped.
Act normally.
