PART 2 — THE HOUSE ARTHUR HELPED ME BUILD

Evelyn arrived shortly after breakfast on Friday.

She carried a canvas grocery bag and two slices of pumpkin pie.

“I thought you’d need something sweet.”

I looked at the pie.

“It’s nine in the morning.”

“It’s Thanksgiving weekend.”

“That’s not an argument.”

“It’s an excellent argument.”

She placed the pie on the counter.

Evelyn and I had known each other for nearly forty years.

She had lived three streets away when Arthur and I raised Daniel. Our husbands worked together at a municipal equipment company.

We attended school functions, shared recipes, and occasionally argued over which of us made better cornbread.

After Arthur died, Evelyn was one of the few people who understood that I sometimes wanted company without wanting consolation.

She didn’t tell me to stay busy.

Didn’t explain grief.

She sat at my kitchen table and allowed the room to be quiet.

Now she looked at the itinerary.

Then the chore list. Then the budget.

“Margaret.”

I waited.

“They didn’t forget to invite you.”

“No.”