My daughter died suddenly, when her son was still an infant, and left me — a woman already past fifty — as his only guardian in the whole world.

I do not have the words, even now, for that particular grief, the grief of burying your own child while cradling hers.

I came to work anyway, because I had to, because there was a baby now who ate only if I earned, and I moved through that great house in those first weeks like a ghost of myself.

And Mr.

Christopher, when he understood what had happened, did not do what wealthy employers usually do.

He did not send flowers and a card and a note about taking whatever time I needed.