Ruth had set two places at her small dining table when I arrived.

Her house smelled of cinnamon and roast vegetables.

A ceramic angel Thomas had once given her stood on the windowsill.

We had all been young together once, three couples attending school concerts and summer cookouts, certain that the years ahead would always be generous.

Over lunch I told her every detail of the night before, even the part that embarrassed me most: I had stood on Daniel’s porch long enough for snow to settle on my shoulders, hoping someone might open the door a second time.

Ruth listened while I spoke.