On the morning of the wedding, I woke long before sunrise, the way I had woken early every day for fifteen years, and I found myself in a small dressing room at the venue, struggling with my tie, when Timothy appeared in the doorway.

“Need a hand with that?” he asked.

I looked at him in the mirror and let out a small tired laugh.

“I raised six girls, Timothy,” I said.

“You would think, by now, I could manage a single piece of silk.” He came over and fixed the knot for me, competent and unhurried.

“You handled the hard parts of life already,” he said, and then he met my eyes in the mirror.

“Today is about Samantha.