He had never been unkind to me.

He had never given me a single concrete thing to point at.

He remembered birthdays.

He said the right things.

He was, by every visible measure, a good husband and a good son-in-law, and whenever the small cold feeling rose up in me around him, I talked myself out of it, because a mother is supposed to want her daughter happy and a suspicious mother-in-law is a cliché and I did not want to be a cliché.

But grief is a strange revealer.