The house still smelled faintly of pine on damp mornings.

The cedar chest held quilts she’d sewn for the children.

In the garage was a hand-painted toy box she’d made for Harry.

Sarah’s belongings had become part of our everyday life.

Sometimes I worried I’d kept too much.

Other times, the ordinary sight of her work reminded me that the children belonged to a family larger than the losses we’d suffered.

My husband had been gone for three years.

Sarah’s death had come earlier.

For a long time afterward, I didn’t imagine remarrying.

Then Oliver appeared at the hardware store.