I folded the check twice and tucked it into the zippered inside pocket of my handbag.

At eleven thirty on Sunday morning, the coffee urn in the fellowship hall of Oak Creek Community Church was still half full.

Zane stood by the wooden coat rack in his charcoal wool suit, leaning in toward Pastor Tom with his left hand resting on the pastor’s shoulder.

My mother and father stood by the refreshment table three steps away, holding paper cups of black coffee.

“Sarah has taken the eighth anniversary a lot harder than anybody expected,” Zane said.