My husband had spent thirty-eight years working for the city before retiring. He was practical, methodical, and mildly irritating about paperwork.

We owned a modest home in northern Arizona.

Nothing spectacular.

Three bedrooms.

A small garage.

A backyard where Arthur grew tomatoes that were usually eaten by birds.

We raised Daniel there.

Paid the mortgage. Replaced appliances when they failed.

Took one proper vacation every few years.

We were comfortable by the time Arthur retired.

Not wealthy.

Comfortable.

When he became ill, we used savings for home modifications and medical expenses.

He remained at home as long as he could.

I cared for him. Daniel visited.

Rebecca brought food.

The grandchildren drew pictures beside Arthur’s bed.

Our family wasn’t always easy, but it was loving.

Or so I believed.

After Arthur died, the house felt enormous.

Every room held something of his.

The chair where he read. His tools.

The desk.

The coffee mug with a chipped handle he refused to replace.

Daniel began suggesting that I move closer to him.