“She’d hate what happened,” I whispered.

“She’d hate him hurting you.

She wouldn’t want you to think the bowl was the whole inheritance.”

I cried in the antique shop, surrounded by strangers debating the prices of teaspoons.

That evening, I made dinner in the kitchenette at the hotel.

I didn’t have to ask whether Dennis wanted beef instead of chicken, whether the vegetables were too soft, whether I had used the expensive olive oil.

I made tomato soup and toast.