I tried not to think about it.
When you’re eighty, you learn that if you go looking for problems in your body, you’ll always find some. So I stopped looking. I wore my loose dresses and ate less and told myself it would go away on its own.
On the first Sunday in September, the family came for dinner.
They do that once a month. It’s the only thing I’ve asked them for since Robert died.
My oldest son, Thomas, came with his wife, Sarah, and their two youngest grandchildren. Thomas is sixty-one. He’s an accountant, like I always knew he’d be. Even as a little boy, he lined up his crayons by color and counted them before bed.
My daughter, Claire, called on video from Phoenix, where she’s lived for twenty years. The grandchildren held the iPad up to the pot roast so she could see it.
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