Seven Years After My Daughter’s Funeral, I Followed Her Husband to a Rehabilitation Center—And Saw a Woman I Thought Was Dead
Another note.
A date.
An incomplete telephone number.
Dorothy’s handwriting grew crowded near the margin.
I remembered that she often wrote small notes while cooking.
She would stop chopping vegetables, pick up a pen, and scribble something before she forgot.
Then return to the stove.
I looked at Ava.
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