“‘Dad is gone. This is my house now. Get out,’ my son told me twenty-two days after I buried my husband, and his wife set my suitcase at my feet like I was some unwanted guest, but in a motel off Route 22 the next morning, over weak coffee and scrambled eggs, I remembered one quiet thing Harold had said on our porch that fall—and suddenly I knew Daniel had made the kind of mistake people only make once”
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