But to understand what happened, I have to begin with the day we buried him.
Chapter One: The Two Envelopes
My husband died on a Thursday morning in February, just before sunrise.
There was no dramatic final speech, no sudden moment when the clouds parted and he told me everything I needed to know.
There was only the soft beeping of a monitor, the smell of antiseptic, and his hand resting in mine.
Thomas had always had beautiful hands.
They were large and square, with thick fingers and a small white scar across his right thumb from an accident involving a table saw when he was twenty-eight.
Those hands had built our first dining table.
They had repaired bicycles, installed kitchen cabinets, held our newborn son, and spent thousands of ordinary evenings reaching across the couch to find mine.
Near the end, they became thin.
I used to rub lotion into his knuckles because the medication made his skin painfully dry.
