Diane led me into the reading room.
The walnut bookshelf I’d built stood beneath the window. She had filled it with books, photographs, and a few small objects that had belonged to Mark.
His books were on the bottom shelf.
Hers were on top.
I noticed the arrangement but didn’t ask about it.
She poured two glasses of wine and sat opposite me.
“I owe you an honest conversation,” she said.
I felt my stomach tighten.
“All right.”
“I’ve spent three years convincing myself that I don’t need anyone.”
She held her glass between both hands.
“After Mark died, people kept telling me I was strong. They admired how quickly I returned to work, how I maintained the house, how I kept my business running.”
She gave a small, humorless smile.
“Nobody asked whether I was happy.”
“Were you?”
“Sometimes. Often enough to build a life. Not always enough to want to wake up in it.”
