bare for months.
Then I opened the drawer beneath Daniel’s desk and found an old photograph.
Daniel and me.
Thirty-one years younger.
Standing in front of the cottage the summer we bought it.
The siding was peeling.
The roof looked terrible.
Daniel had one arm around me.
We both looked exhausted.
And we were laughing.
On the back, Daniel had written:
First summer. Marianne says this place will kill us. I think she secretly loves it.
I carried the photograph into the kitchen and placed it on the refrigerator with
