That is exactly what Lawrence had designed it to seem to say — though not to me, and not for the reason I feared.

Chapter 3 — The Last Four Months

Then the illness came, and my husband began the slow business of slipping away from me.

The last four months we spent in home hospice, in the bedroom we had shared for most of our marriage.

I sat beside his bed every single afternoon, holding the same calloused hand I had held when we were nineteen, and we passed the hours in whatever way the day allowed.

Sometimes we talked about our early years in Ohio, the diner near campus, the tweed jacket, the apartment with the radiator that banged all winter.