Seven Years After My Daughter’s Funeral, I Followed Her Husband to a Rehabilitation Center—And Saw a Woman I Thought Was Dead

I remembered the market.

The smell of fresh bread.

The little paper bags.

Melissa sampling pastries while I complained that the free food was ruining somebody’s business.

She’d tease me.

Dorothy would laugh.

Then we’d buy more than we intended.

Those memories had survived.