She cooked far too much food, and Arthur washed dishes while complaining cheerfully about the state of his knees.

After Evelyn died, Arthur stopped inviting people over.

The Sunday table disappeared into the silence with everything else that reminded him of her.

My visits had slowly brought back the routine: a kettle, two mugs, a little plate of biscuits.

I wondered whether that was why he cared so deeply about the groceries.

Perhaps food was simply the language their marriage had taught him for welcoming people home.

I showed Elise the notebook.