balcony looking across an ocean that seemed endless.
I had never seen anything so vast.
Or so peaceful.
The ship moved beneath the morning sun.
I drank coffee.
I read Ernest’s old book.
And for the first time since burying him, I laughed.
Not because I had forgotten my husband.
Because I finally understood that loving Ernest didn’t require spending the rest of my life serving people who didn’t return that love.
That afternoon, I turned my phone back on.
Forty-three missed calls.
Twenty-eight from Austin.
Eleven from Chloe.
Four
