The baby turned one in September. A photo arrived in my inbox that morning: frosting on cheeks, fists in the air, Tyler’s hand steadying a chubby arm. Sarah’s caption was simple: “James is one.” I stared at the name for a long time, expecting the familiar flare of anger. Instead, I felt something that might have been a benediction. Names don’t belong to ghosts; they belong to the living.
In October, I cleaned out the last of James’s things from the hall closet. In a jacket pocket I found a pawn shop ticket dated two months before he died. The item: “14k gold wedding band.” My breath stuttered. For a moment the room tilted. Then I folded the slip of paper neatly and slid it into an envelope. I didn’t go to the pawn shop. The ring had already done enough damage in this life. It didn’t need to come home to do more.
Thanksgiving crept up like a memory you can see coming around the bend. Tom invited me to his wife’s family’s feast; Lila’s dad insisted I stop by for cannoli; Elizabeth suggested we do something untraditional. “No turkey,” she said. “Just pie.”