Robert had built the wooden fence around that garden when our youngest son was ten. He had planted the rosebush near the steps after my mother died. Every spring, we worked together to remove the weeds, and every autumn, we complained about the leaves that covered the path.
That morning, I realized I didn’t know whether those memories belonged to the man I had married or to a version of him that no longer existed.
I switched off the stove.
Then I waited for him to come home.
Robert returned shortly after six in the evening.
He walked into the kitchen carrying a paper bag from the bakery and leaned down to kiss my cheek.
“Something smells good,” he said.
I looked at him.
For forty-two years, I had loved that face. I had watched it change from the face of a young man into the lined, silver-haired face of an older husband. I knew every wrinkle around his eyes.
