I believed my son was only burying his senior-year nerves out in the garage. But when his prom date got out of the car, she was not a teenage girl. She was my dead husband’s greatest secret.

The kitchen window held a gentle spring evening in its frame, the kind of golden light that made the yard look like it belonged in a magazine. I stood at the sink with an unused dish towel in my hand, watching the sky blush pink behind the neighbor’s maple tree.

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