People tell better stories with cookies.”

I laughed despite the dread sitting beneath my ribs.

Monday morning I baked oatmeal cookies, the way my mother used to make them.

I packed six in a paper bag and wore my nicest blue blouse to the library.

I did not wear the necklace Thomas had given me for our fortieth anniversary.

For reasons I could not explain, I wanted to arrive as the girl from the photograph, not as the widow who had learned to survive without her.

At the library, a woman stood when I entered.