But Nolan had never been good at gifts.
In 26 years, I had unwrapped a slow cooker, a winter coat two sizes too large, and once, a vacuum cleaner he swore was « top of the line. »
We never spoke her name out loud anymore.
I had learned to laugh after everything we had lost. Because we had lost our daughter, Emily, 10 years ago. Her name lived in a drawer in the hallway, in a small framed photo Nolan had quietly turned face-down one winter and never turned back.
I had noticed, but said nothing.
We never spoke her name out loud anymore.
Lately, though, Nolan had seemed somewhere else. He took longer walks after dinner. Took phone calls out on the back porch with the door closed. Once I caught him staring at the turned-down frame in the hallway, his coffee gone cold in his hand.
« You okay? » I asked.
