It was the hand that had written me notes in college, that had filled out our mortgage application, that had scrawled milk, bread, the good coffee on a thousand scraps of paper stuck to a thousand refrigerators across the decades of our marriage.

To see it now, fresh on a folded sheet of stationery, speaking to me from the far side of his death, undid something in me that the whole terrible morning had not yet managed to reach.

My husband was gone, and here was his hand, still moving, still looking after me.

I had to steady the page against my knee before I could read a word.

Chapter 14 — The Letter