Walter’s birthday arrived in November.

I had dreaded it since I was a child, because grief always found a way to make ordinary dates feel like locked rooms.

This year I decided to invite Helen and Dana for dinner.

I asked Vincent not to come.

Whatever connection might grow between us needed to exist without occupying every corner of my family history.

I prepared vegetable soup from a recipe Walter used to make when money was tight.

He always added too much pepper and claimed it was good for the cold.