arrived through mugs, grocery lists, jackets hanging by the door.
Rachel called on Saturday. I hadn’t meant to tell anyone, but her “Are you okay?” undid me. She brought soup and stayed until midnight as I explained everything except the details Daniel couldn’t count. She didn’t tell me to leave, ruin him, or take everything. She listened, then asked “What do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay.”
“I’m so angry.”
“I know.”
“And I miss him.”
“I know.”
“I hate that.” Her answer was “You can miss the person
