Her first thought had been a small stab of grief-adjacent irritation, the kind that ambushes you at funerals: she hated things on her neck.

She had hated it since she was a child.

She wouldn’t wear turtlenecks.

She had a thing about scarves.

At her own wedding she had rejected a dress at the second fitting because the neckline sat too high, and Margaret had been in the room.

Nathan had picked a high-collared dress.