I didn’t open the box that night either.

Liam’s card said to call him when I was ready, and I wasn’t, so the box went up on the shelf over my coats.

What kept coming back to me instead was a Tuesday in October, eleven years earlier, and the third floor smelling of someone’s warmed-up casserole.

Charles Wilson was already sitting at the window table with his coffee when I brought my lunch in.

I had my mother’s casserole in a plastic container and a fork rolled up in a paper napkin.