I Joked, “If I Were Twenty Years Younger… I’d Marry You.”… Then She Looked Me Dead in the Eye and Said, “That Doesn’t Matter to Me.”

Feed order on Mondays.

Farm store inventory on Thursdays.

Church on Sundays, when I could stand the pity.

The east room, where Eleanor used to do our paperwork, stayed locked.

Her sweater still hung on the back of the chair.

Her glasses still sat beside the old calculator.

Her mug stayed in the cabinet, untouched.

I told myself grief was respect.

Truth was, grief had become a fence, and I was hiding behind it.

The only person who crossed that fence without asking was Margaret Hale.