But none required a stranger to claim ownership of our lives.

That afternoon, I opened Sarah’s cedar chest.

The brass hinges creaked.

Inside lay the floral tablecloth I’d ironed before the rehearsal dinner.

I’d folded it carefully after everything happened.

Then hidden it at the bottom because I couldn’t bear to look at it.

Now I lifted it out.

The pattern showed red and yellow flowers.

The cloth was slightly faded.

One edge held a faint stain from an old family dinner.