Twenty-seven years with him had already given me enough to know what I believed.

He would have wanted the chance.

He did not get it.

So the people left behind did the only thing available.

We stopped wasting the chances we still had.

Twelve days after my husband died, my neighbor climbed over my fence and stole every piece of fruit she could reach.

She wanted me to feel what losing Patrick had felt like to her.

She succeeded only briefly.