By nine on Wednesday morning, Margaret sat propped against two stiff hospital pillows while I fed her warm oatmeal from a little paper cup.

“You missed my chin by half an inch, Tommy,” she said, taking the plastic spoon out of my fingers.

“Susan always said I was hopeless at serving breakfast,” I said.

Margaret smiled, though the gray shadow under her cheekbones stayed dark.

“Susan was a quiet woman.

She brought those lemon cakes to the summer social every July.

Kade wasn’t much for socials.

He worked at the concrete yard until seven every night and came home to read trade magazines.”