And when I read the first lines of my husband’s letter, my knees nearly gave out beneath me.
Chapter 2: The Woman at the Funeral
To understand what that letter did to me, you have to understand the funeral first.
Nine days before the sweater, I had buried my husband on a gray Tuesday with forty dollars in my checking account.
I wore a black dress I’d owned since before Lily was born, let out at the seams to fit around the baby.
Jack had no family to invite.
No parents, no cousins, no old aunt in the back row.
So the small chapel filled instead with my family — and my family had never forgiven me for marrying him.
They had wanted me to do what my older sister did.
Marry up. Marry safe. Marry a man with a name and a cushion under him.
My older sister, Vanessa, arrived last, the way she always did, so that everyone would see her come in.
