Through the tall dining-room windows that ran nearly floor to ceiling, I could see the whole family gathered around a long mahogany table.

And there, near the head of it, was my husband — a glass of dark wine in his hand, his head tipped back, laughing at something one of his siblings had said, at ease, certain that the two halves of his life were four hours and a locked box safely apart.

I climbed the front steps with the cedar box in my arms, Darcy on one side of me and my two children close on the other.

I did not knock.