I had not let myself be held, really held, in the two weeks since Lawrence died.

I had been too busy being fine, truly, handing everyone that smooth worn coin of a phrase, holding myself upright and separate because leaning on anyone felt like the first step toward being managed.

But Nancy’s arms were around me now, my fierce daughter who had turned on me in the lawyer’s office out of her own fear and grief, and Douglas’s too, my quiet son, and I felt the fight go out of my shoulders at last.

They had been wrong about me, briefly, terribly.