I knew at once that she had planned this moment down to the order of the pages.

“The night we bought the house,” she told me, “you said you never wanted me to feel like a visitor wherever we lived.

You asked the attorney to put our names together.

I remember because we ate tacos in the car afterward and you were worried I’d spilled salsa on the closing papers.”

I laughed once, without humor.

I remembered the tacos.

I had forgotten the promise that went with them.