“She loved you anyway.”
Nora looked at him. “I know.”
He took the photo down from the shelf and handed it to her.
She stared at it, startled.
“Take it next door and make a copy,” Daniel said. “Lily will notice if it disappears completely.”
Nora laughed through tears. “Are you sure?”
“Emma hated when people acted sentimental in front of her, but she kept six duplicate photos of the same county fair day in a cookie tin upstairs. So yes. I’m sure.”
Nora held the frame to her chest for one second before lowering it carefully. “Thank you.”
Christmas came quietly that year.
Not painless.
Never painless.
But different.
Better.
Lily insisted that Aunt Nora help hang stockings. Daniel insisted that if Aunt Nora was attending Christmas Eve dinner, she was also helping peel potatoes. Nora argued she had not peeled a potato in fifteen years. Daniel argued that wealth should not exempt a person from root vegetables. Lily declared this hilarious and appointed herself quality control.
After dinner, they opened the cedar box Emma had kept in the attic and only Nora had been able to identify by description from memory. Inside were old photographs, a red scarf from Miller’s Pond, three friendship bracelets, and a stack of sealed envelopes addressed in Emma’s handwriting.
One for Lily at ten.
One for Lily at sixteen.
One for Nora.
One for Daniel.
He took his to the porch and read it under the yellow light while snow fell soft into the yard.
Daniel,
If you’re reading this, then I was right about two things: first, that you would somehow keep going no matter how badly you wanted to stop; and second, that the people I love have finally found each other again.
I’m sorry for every hard thing you had to survive without me.
Please don’t make a religion out of grief. I know you. You will try to honor me by carrying too much. That is not what I want. I want Lily laughing. I want music in the kitchen. I want somebody to remember to sharpen your good scissors because you never do it yourself.
If Nora is there, let her in if you can. She was never the villain in my story, only the missing page.
I married you because you made ordinary life feel trustworthy. If you can make it feel that way again for Lily, or for yourself, or for anyone who walks through our door, then you’ve done more than enough.
Love her well.
Love yourself a little better.
And for heaven’s sake, buy new towels.