What Remains of You

Chapter 1: Chapter One

Diana Morgan jogs up her driveway, her lungs burning and bright spots of pain shooting up her calves. She’s trying to find an upside to losing her husband, making a mental list in her Notes app: Tom was the one who liked to run, not me; I can sleep in the middle of the bed; I can keep the heat as high as I want. But each silver lining turns sour—she’s alone now, the only parent to twelve-year-old Duncan and nine-year-old Phoebe. She limps onto her porch, shivering in the frigid New England air, and lets herself in.

Inside, she drops her gloves, hat, and vest on the bench in the cluttered hallway next to her son’s basketball gear. Duncan calls out from the kitchen. Diana presses a hand against the wall, catches her breath, and joins them. Duncan sits at the island in workout pants and Tom’s old Van Halen concert tee, too big for him but worn constantly. Diana blinks away the image of college-age Tom in that shirt. She asks how practice was, but before Duncan can answer, Phoebe interrupts, hopping and brandishing a manila envelope. She’s found the family time capsule—a homework assignment from four years ago that the kids have been pestering Diana about for a week. Diana looked everywhere without success. Tom would have known where it was.

Phoebe explains she found it in the office, tucked behind the photo albums. Diana takes the envelope. On the front, in red marker: Time Capsute: Do Not OPEN unTiL Fesruary 29, 2016. Her breath goes shallow, the hair on her arms rising. In the eighteen months since Tom died, she’s tried not to think about the past. She must not have wanted to go near those photo albums. Now looking back is unavoidable. She forces a smile and lies that she’s okay, then drops the envelope on the island, saying she needs to start dinner first.

Phoebe’s face crumples, tears threatening. But Diana kisses her forehead, promises they’ll open it after dinner, and sends both kids to their homework. Phoebe takes Bear Bear—her stuffed animal, a constant companion since her third birthday—to the table. Duncan grabs the laptop from the counter, where it sits on a pile of unopened mail and school notices. Before, the computer was Tom’s; now Diana keeps it in the kitchen so everyone stays in the same room. She denies Duncan’s request for video games, and he groans, but then his hand lightly grazes her shoulder as he passes—a habit he developed after Tom died, as if to make sure she’s still there.

Phoebe remembers that Lakshmi sent home macaroni and cheese, Tom’s favorite. Diana brings the dish into the kitchen, peeking under the foil. She opens the refrigerator, pushes aside milk, finds her mother’s fruit salad and baby carrots. She checks her phone: texts from her sister Andrea and her mother Vivian, both asking about her run, both interpreting exercise as a sign she’s not falling back into the debilitating grief that eclipsed her after Tom’s death. Diana sticks the phone in her pocket and puts the mac and cheese in the oven to reheat.

Phoebe finishes looking up “blizzard” in the dictionary and asks again: is it time to open the time capsule now? Diana picks up the envelope, its crisp edges sliding across her palm. Everything blurs. She’s scared by the pain this might dredge up. She wants to shred it, throw it away. But her children’s needs come first. She closes her eyes, counts to ten with circular breathing, then hands the envelope to Phoebe.

Phoebe flips it over, unsealed with a silver metal clasp. She works it open methodically, her tongue sticking out. The second arm lifts, and she removes a piece of cream-colored construction paper—a crayon drawing of a family of kittens, labeled by Diana four years ago: Mama, Daopy, DuNcAN, ME. Diana’s memory kick-starts, fragmented. She recalls the night: Duncan coming home adamant about completing the time capsule on Leap Day. Tom joined them for dinner, still in his gray suit, tie askew, hollows under his eyes. Diana remembers rubbing his back, the knots in his muscles. After dinner, Tom and Duncan conferred on items while Phoebe drew. At bedtime, Tom kissed Phoebe and Bear Bear, his arm curled around Diana’s waist, holding her there before opening a beer—the crack and fizz finishing the memory.

Phoebe hands the drawing to Diana. Duncan shows his old math homework with a smiley face. They pass around a photo of the four of them apple-picking, Duncan’s school portrait, Phoebe’s preschool snapshot, ticket stubs from Duncan’s first Celtics game. Then Duncan holds up a paper stained with burnt-orange spots—tacos, Diana remembers. It’s the interview Duncan did with Tom.

Duncan reads aloud: “Name: Tom Morgan. Age: 47. Address: 90 Newton Road. Occupation: attorney. Hobbies: playing basketball with Duncan. Hope for the future: My son will pick up his Legos.” Duncan bites his lip. Diana tries not to cry. Phoebe says Daddy was funny. Diana agrees, adding that he was right about the Legos. Duncan finishes: favorite vacation—Cape Cod with my family; favorite season—winter, because they all went sledding. Phoebe doesn’t remember. Diana sees a memory: Phoebe nestled between Tom’s legs, flying down the hill, Tom laughing, Phoebe shrieking. “I miss Daddy,” Phoebe whispers. Diana hopes she’ll say yes to stopping, but Duncan presses on, thrusting a white envelope across the table. “This is for you, Mom.”

Diana’s name is written on the front in Tom’s handwriting. Phoebe guesses it’s a love letter. Duncan whispers, “Please open it.” Diana inserts her finger into the corner, rips open the envelope, and withdraws a sheet of paper. She begins to read silently.

Dear Diana, If you've found this letter, I'm gone. I shouldn't say “if,” as it's clear there's no miraculous recovery for me waiting around the corner. I am so sorry for leaving you and the kids.

Phoebe asks what it says. Diana says, “He’s talking about being sick. But—your father wasn’t sick when we put together the time capsule. He wasn’t diagnosed until later.” Her teeth chatter. She turns back to the letter.

I'm also sorry for something else, something I've never told you. I should have accepted responsibility a long time ago, before I met you. Maybe if I tell you now, it will be enough. It's also possible I’m making things worse for you by writing this letter, but I owe it to you to tell you the kind of man I really was. When I was 18 years old, I did something criminal. Something so terrible I can't even write the details here. People died. It’s all my fault.

The words tumble across the page. Diana feels a headache take hold behind her eyes. Oh my God, oh my God. Duncan and Phoebe look at her, waiting. Phoebe asks hesitantly, “Mama?” Diana stands, stuffs the letter into her pocket, and says in a voice too loud and too high, “Why don’t we celebrate finding the time capsule? How about ice cream?” She tells Duncan to check flavors, Phoebe to get the scooper, and she’ll look for sprinkles. She rushes to the pantry by the back door. Phoebe protests about dinner not being eaten yet, but Duncan shushes her and opens the freezer.

Hidden behind the pantry door, Diana grips a shelf stocked with oatmeal and cans of black beans. She pushes down a wave of panic. Sweat breaks out along her hairline; her legs shake. She has no idea who died, what Tom did, or why he left this letter. But in front of her children, she has to pretend nothing has changed. She grabs a container of rainbow sprinkles. “I’ll be right there.”

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Chapter 2: Chapter Two

Once the kids are asleep—their bellies full of unexpected ice cream and macaroni and cheese—Diana carries a bottle of wine and a glass into the living room. She sits on the floor in the dark, her back against the sofa. She thinks about calling her sister, maybe even having her come over while she reads the letter, but she knows that if she does, the focus will shift from what Diana needs to what her sister wants her to do. Her parents would react the same way. This letter is for Diana. She has to read it on her own.

Inside her sweatshirt pocket, she runs her fingers along the envelope, stopping when she reaches the hastily torn opening.

Diana has been making lists since she was a kid. At seven, she pitched Why Should My Bedtime Be Later? to her father; he laughed and gave her fifteen extra minutes. In high school, after her sister got caught sneaking out to meet a boy, she presented What Makes Me the Better Daughter? to her parents. They were amused. Her sister was not. The lists continued through college, then faded after graduation as her adult life took shape. Now, at forty-three, they’ve reappeared. They’re supposed to offer answers to a question, but sometimes her grief hijacks them, turning them into something else, something revealing, something she tries hard not to see.

Did he drive drunk and cause an accident? Was it a hit-and-run? Did he intentionally hurt someone?

The branches of the tree in her front yard slap against the house as the wind picks up.

She and Tom met on a blustery night just like this one, a storm in the forecast. She was at a bar on Boylston Street with coworkers from the Boston Public Library, drinking margaritas and shooting pool. After her second drink, the tequila wearing her out, she said her goodbyes. As she came out of the restroom, coat in hand, calculating how often the subway ran that late, she found him waiting. “You're going? Right when I got the courage to talk to you?” He leaned against the wall, wearing a red tie and a blue shirt that matched his eyes, his arms crossed, his mouth turned up in a hesitant smile. He had a beard then. When she looked at him, his smile grew and he stepped forward. She inhaled, and his scent—the crisp, grassy smell of the moment before snow falls—filled her head, all the blood rushing to her toes, leaving her skin tingling.

He told her later, after they’d been dating three months, that he noticed her the moment she walked through the door. He hoped she would step away from her group so he could say hello. She joked that maybe he was a stalker, but he didn’t laugh. “I knew you were special,” he said, and she kissed him. That night at the bar, she almost turned away from him, from their future together, but a quiet and insistent hunch made her push through her sleepiness to stay. He bought them a round of margaritas and told her about his job at a prestigious law firm and his dream to go out on his own. She sipped her cocktail and noticed the way his hair curled around his ears. She wanted to run her fingers through those curls and rub her cheek against his beard. She wanted to inhale the scent of him again.

When Tom asked about her life, Diana entertained him with stories about the library’s patrons and shared her dream of earning her PhD in library sciences and working at, or even leading, a grand library like the ones she’d visited during a vacation to England. He listened carefully, asking smart and thoughtful questions that made her forget they’d just met. And then there was his laugh: the way his eyes lit up, the way he clutched his stomach when the joke was exceptional, the musicality of his unexpected giggle. She fell for him that night, though it would be a while before she realized it. They talked until the overworked bartenders kicked them out. Not ready for the night to end, he walked her home, the wind whipping around them on the empty Boston streets. It was a magical, chance meeting, and every anniversary, Tom made them margaritas to summon up that first night.

It’s time to read this letter, Diana thinks. She shifts up onto the sofa, leans over to the side table, and turns on the lamp. The red liquid in her glass glints in the pale light. She takes a large swig of the wine—a pinotage, Tom’s favorite—and places the empty glass down. As the wine seeps through her body, she rubs her hands over her face. I can do this. She removes the envelope from her pocket. He wrote her name as if in a rush, the letters crooked, the envelope dented with the marks of his pen. She pulls out the letter and begins to read, starting with the first line in case she misunderstood the words earlier.

Dear Diana, If you've found this letter, I'm gone. I shouldn't say "if," as it's clear there's no miraculous recovery for me waiting around the corner. I am so sorry for leaving you and the kids. I'm also sorry for something else, something I've never told you. I should have accepted responsibility a long time ago, before I met you. Maybe if I tell you now, it will be enough. It's also possible I’m making things worse for you by writing this letter, but I owe it to you to tell you the kind of man I really was. When I was 18 years old, I did something criminal. Something so terrible I can't even write the details here. People died. It’s all my fault. I never owned up to what I did, a decision that was another mistake. Others know about my past. After my death, around the time you find this letter, when I hope you've moved on from me, they may come into your life. Don’t let them in. Keep them away from Duncan and Phoebe. If we had been different people, or maybe if our relationship had been different, I might have told you all this sooner. I tried, but I wasn't sure how you'd react. Would you have been disappointed in me? Or angry? How could you trust me for lying to you for our entire relationship? For so long, I blamed you for my inability to come clean. I saw you as the obstacle to being truthful when it clearly was me. I'm sorry for so much. Perhaps this cancer is the universe fixing my wrongs. If it is, I understand, though I wish leaving you was not the debt I had to pay. When you speak of me to Duncan and Phoebe, tell them their father was imperfect, but he loved them, and you, more than anything. Tom

By the third paragraph, Diana stops breathing. At the end, she finds herself lightheaded, choking for air. I hope you've moved on from me. I blamed you. I'm sorry. She turns over the page and examines the envelope again. This is definitely Tom’s handwriting. He wrote this letter, though the tone is odd, as if he anticipated the words would be dissected and analyzed.

An idea comes to her, and Diana is up, running into the kitchen, the letter clutched in her hand. She grabs the time capsule from the top of the toaster oven and dumps the contents onto the black granite countertop. She pushes the items apart haphazardly, almost ripping Phoebe’s drawing in half with her frantic movements. Everything is there: Tom’s interview, the newspaper, the apple-picking photograph. All the other items are from 2012, when they assembled the time capsule. Except this letter. It’s from a different time, likely right before Tom’s death in 2014.

A surge of nausea—all that wine acidic and angry, roiling in her gut—makes her briefly think she will vomit all over the kitchen floor. She squeezes her eyes shut and presses her fingers into her temple. “Go back to the beginning,” she says, as if it’s that easy. With her belly pressed against the counter, Diana recreates finding the time capsule. She sees Phoebe run in from the office with it in her hands. She remembers sitting at the table with the kids as Phoebe opened the envelope. That’s when she remembers an important detail: Phoebe labored over the time capsule’s clasp, not its seal. The adhesive was untouched. It could have been possible, therefore, to add a letter… later.

“Some love letter this is. What happened?” she pants. “Why doesn’t he explain what he did?” She shuffles through the time capsule’s contents again, her brisk movements turning the papers and photographs into a disorienting, dizzying blur. She imagines the panic she’s feeling is what it’s like to drown, or to get caught in a tornado: everything swirling around, nothing to hold on to. Whatever Tom’s cryptic message is, she is sure of one thing: It is indeed a disaster, a man-made storm violently barreling into her life, seconds away from splintering her to pieces.

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Chapter 3: Chapter Three

Tom reaches across the warm and rumpled sheets and pulls Diana close. She draws circles on his forearm. He kisses her temple, trailing his lips down to her neck and then her shoulder. She loosens her body against his, melting into a sort of contentment that happens only when he embraces her. His murmuring grows more insistent, and then the words are clear: “Mom, Mom!”

Diana groans and rolls over. Duncan stands next to her bed, wearing his parka and carrying his sneakers. “Mom, it's 7:36. Aren't you supposed to be up for work by now?” He turns the bedside clock around so the red numbers blink in her line of sight. She’s overslept by more than an hour.

She pushes off the covers and sits up so fast her brain seems to swim in her skull. “Dammit, I have an 8:30 meeting. Where's your sister?” Sleeping, he tells her. She forces a smile, thanks him for waking her, and heads toward the bathroom, her calves still aching from yesterday's run. But Duncan doesn’t move. “Mom? What did Dad's letter say?”

The letter, she thinks, looking at her bedside table. She stashed it in the top drawer only hours earlier. Phoebe might forget about it, but Duncan never would. “He wanted me to tell you he loved you,” Diana says, grasping the doorknob for support. “And that the three of us were the best part of his life.” She can’t tell him all of it—she didn’t fall asleep until after 4:00 a.m., imagining what Tom did that was so bad he couldn’t tell her when he was alive.

Duncan purses his lips into a stiff line. She wants to wrap her arms around him, but she's learned to wait for him to let her in. “Can I read it?” The letter was for me, she explains. She's told him what Tom wanted her to share. He twists his sneakers in his hands, and she tells him they can talk later. He reminds her that Uncle Evan is taking him to a basketball clinic tonight—since Tom's death, her brother-in-law has stepped in to help with Duncan, learning basketball websites and shop talk to engage him during their drives. It’s one of many ways her family built a safety net underneath her and her kids.

Duncan slips out of her room without responding. She listens to the stairs creak and the front door open and close before moving into the bathroom. Tom still hovers at the edge of her thoughts—her dream was so vivid she can still feel his body against hers, and the sensation makes her off kilter and jumpy.

After washing her face and brushing her teeth, blood staining her toothbrush, Diana steps into the shower and trembles under the cold water, scrubbing away last night's run. Toweling off, she avoids glancing at herself in the mirror, certain she’ll see the deepening grooves in her forehead and the web of fine lines. She’s seen a worn version of herself for months. Sometimes, when she remembers how she was before—more vibrant, more hopeful—she cries.

Checking the clock—7:41 a.m.—she sticks her shoulder-length, wavy hair in a ponytail and opens her closet, avoiding looking to the left where Tom's clothes still hang. Her mother used to urge her to clear them out, but Diana said no every time. Eventually Vivian stopped asking.

As if she’s aware Diana is thinking about her, the phone rings. Her mother's face appears on the screen. Diana debates silencing the call, but Vivian will only call again and again until she answers. “Mom, I'm running late for work. I can't talk.” She puts the phone on speaker and rips the dry-cleaning bag off a pair of black wool pants and a beige cashmere sweater.

“Sweetheart, I wanted to touch base about Family Dinner.” Diana is scheduled to host her parents, Evan, Andrea, and their son, Noah, later in the week. She has completely forgotten. Finding a letter from my deceased husband will do that, she thinks as she dresses. “I haven't done any planning yet, Mom. I’ve been kind of slammed at work.”

Family Dinner began when Tom and Diana moved to Alcott, near her parents and sister. The two-story yellow house with the magnolia tree was the last one they saw, and they knew it was theirs as soon as they walked through the door. The first Family Dinner was held the week they closed. Since Tom's death, Vivian and Andrea have alternated hosting, while waging a low-level campaign for Diana to volunteer as well. She resisted until two weeks ago, when her father called to ask if she might change her mind. She could never say no to Francis.

“Let me make it easier for you, Diana.” She considers asking her mother to host, but such a last-minute request would concern her family, and the questions would inevitably start: Are you okay? Do I need to come over? What's really going on? She can't handle that level of invasiveness. Her mother suggests she bring dessert. “I'll make lasagna,” Diana says. Everyone loves her lasagna, she thinks as she zips up her pants. She doesn’t have time to continue this negotiation, and her mother will get what she wants anyway. She hangs up and selects earrings from the bedside table, next to the small blue dish where Tom dropped his loose change—still filled with coins, now covered in dust.

It's 7:48 a.m. She hustles to Phoebe's room. “Honey, wake up. We overslept.” She turns on the overhead light and finds Phoebe perfectly still under the covers, Bear Bear clutched in her arms. “Pheebs? I can't do this today. I have a meeting, and we're late. I need your help.” Her voice rises higher and higher. “Phoebe? Please.”

Phoebe squirms out from under her blanket. “Hi, Mama. You're already dressed.” Diana explains they're running late, that she needs her to get up and get dressed now. But Phoebe stretches her arms above her head. “I'm comfy, Mama.” Diana opens the dresser to select clothes: rainbow-striped leggings, a purple sweatshirt, underwear, and pink socks. She turns back to find Phoebe hasn't budged. “Phoebe!” Her tone takes on a biting edge. “Get out of bed.”

Phoebe frowns but sits up, swinging her feet over the mattress. “I want breakfast first.” Diana gestures to the pile of clothes and runs down the stairs, unearthing both her boots and Phoebe's from the front closet. 7:51 a.m. Nine minutes to get out the door. She grabs ingredients for a sandwich, slathering peanut butter and jam on two slices of bread, leaving the jars on the counter. No food or coffee for her. She removes Phoebe's lunch box from the refrigerator, stuffs it into her backpack, and glances at the microwave clock: 7:53 a.m.

“Phoebe?” Diana paces at the foot of the stairs, clutching the sandwich and backpack. She shouldn't yell; it isn't her daughter's fault they're late, but can't the kid move faster? “Phoebe!” This time she shrieks, a sound that rattles her. Her agitation is really about Tom's letter, but she can't calm herself. She can't let go of the feeling that a grenade has been thrown into her life, sabotaging the order and control she's carefully built.

Phoebe appears at the top of the stairs, still in her nightgown. “I'm coming.” “Why aren't you dressed?” Diana places the backpack and sandwich on the bottom step and runs up the stairs, pushing Phoebe down the hall and into her bedroom, undressing her as they go. “I can't believe you, Phoebe Francesca Morgan! We're in a rush. Come on!” Not even her full name motivates Phoebe. She stands naked in front of Diana, listless and looking down.

Diana pulls the purple sweatshirt over her head, handling her daughter as if she’s a toddler again. She yanks Phoebe's left arm through the shirt, then her right. She turns back to pick up the rest of the clothes and finds that her daughter is crying, tears silently falling.

“Oh, baby.” Diana drops to her knees.

“Why are you yelling at me? Why are you mad at me?” Phoebe sniffles, wiping her face.

Diana explains—they overslept, she has a meeting she's leading that starts in thirty-two minutes, she still needs to deliver Phoebe next door and get to work. It's not a lot of time. “So I'm stressed out, and that makes me yell.” Her face is hot with shame.

Phoebe lets Diana slide on her underwear, socks, and leggings. When she’s dressed, Diana hugs her, apologizing for being a grump. Phoebe says she loves her too, then tugs at the knots in her hair. Diana checks her watch. No time. “We'll ask Lakshmi to brush it for you, okay?” She picks up her nine-year-old daughter, something she rarely does anymore, and carries her downstairs. They pull on their coats and zip up their boots. Handing Phoebe her sandwich, Diana picks up their bags and

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Chapter 4: Chapter Four

On the fourth floor of Alcott Memorial Library, Diana feels the familiar comfort of the building wrap around her—the smell of untold stories, the Tudor architecture with its dark timbered ceilings. She takes the elevator at 8:26 a.m., dumps her bag and coat in her office, grabs a pad and pen, and sprints to the conference room. Of course, the one morning she would have welcomed late arrivals, everyone is on time. Her colleagues have already set up the projector and passed out agendas, stepping in for her again.

Ninety minutes later, Diana sits at her desk sipping cold coffee, her stomach growling. She should have eaten that banana Lakshmi gave her. She also should have remembered to bring it in from her car. The meeting went well, but guilt gnaws at her about how she treated both of her children that morning. She tells herself all she needs is a good night's sleep to parent better tomorrow. But she knows sleep alone can't fix the real reason she snapped at Phoebe. Despite her vow not to think about the letter, it crept back into her thoughts during the meeting. She understands that ignoring it is impossible. Without the truth, she'll worry about Tom's secret and obsess about all he might have done. The only option is to decipher this strange, unsettling news. She has to figure out what Tom was really trying to tell her.

Diana wakes up her computer and navigates to her internet browser. She enters "Thomas Morgan" + crime into the search bar and hits Return. She hopes nothing will appear, that this whole mess is a dream. Quickly, too quickly, the screen loads with hundreds of results. So many different Thomas Morgans have committed so many different crimes—mail fraud, theft, tax evasion, child pornography. Diana grows queasy with each result. She studies an article about a Thomas Morgan seeking a prison pen pal and spends too much time looking at mug shots. None of these men are her husband. A revised search for "Thomas Morgan" + crime + 1982 also doesn't turn up what she needs.

She doesn't notice when her office door is pushed open. Camille Taylor, the library director, appears in the doorway, nearly six feet tall with long, thin braids gathered in a bun. Camille closes the door and asks if Diana is free, noting she seemed distracted in the meeting. Diana fidgets with her pen and blames a terrible night's sleep. Camille's shoulders relax, and she lowers into the chair, asking if Diana needs to talk about anything. Diana considers telling Camille about Tom's letter, but every instinct begs her to stay silent. She has no idea what she's dealing with. Camille and the rest of the staff were generous with their time while Tom was sick and after his death, but there's a limit. Diana lies, saying nothing is bothering her.

After Camille leaves, several more online searches bring Diana no closer to deciphering Tom's letter. She calls down to the reference desk for help accessing the library's online research consortium. The librarian chastises her for never registering, rectifies the oversight in seconds, and hangs up abruptly. Diana mutters, moving back to her computer screen. She stops at the framed photo of Tom on her desk—their honeymoon in Greece, the blue and white buildings of Santorini aglow in sunset. It's as if the photo has captured his essence. Another list comes to her: Why Didn't Tom Tell Me What He Did? He meant to tell me but got too sick. He was scared. He was afraid of what would happen if I knew the truth.

Animated voices in the hall pull Diana out of her list-making. She sticks her head out to find her mother in conversation with the department admin. Afraid Vivian is asking personal questions, Diana interrupts. Her mother has come to see her, lugging two shopping bags of clothes for the children. Vivian kisses Diana's cheek and breezes into the office, dropping the bags and producing an egg salad sandwich from her purse—Diana's favorite, because she forgot her lunch. Vivian talks about Family Dinner, the meal she'll bring everything for. Diana and her sister call Vivian "The General" behind her back, so efficiently does their mother run her life and theirs. As a teenager, Diana chafed under her mother's efficiency; as a widow with two kids, she knows The General is one of the reasons she manages to remain a functioning member of society.

As Vivian describes her schedule for the rest of the day, Diana remembers a moment, a few months after Tom's funeral, when she overheard her mother and sister whispering in her kitchen. Diana stood on the stairs as they discussed her unrelenting sadness. Andrea said she needed inpatient treatment. Vivian's voice broke as she said a hospital stay would be disruptive to the children, that she didn't know how to make this better for them. Her mother's pain was a weight Diana hadn't expected. She decided then to hide her feelings, letting them emerge only when she was alone. She forced herself to change out of her pajamas and shower, cried as she blow-dried her hair and made her bed, but came downstairs clear-eyed. Her mother declared she'd turned a corner, and her family eagerly embraced this pretend Diana—a fantasy she's kept going ever since. So ingrained is she in this pretense that she doesn't tell her mother about Tom's letter.

After her mother leaves, Diana spends the rest of the afternoon preparing next year's budget, approving licenses for e-books, and answering overdue emails. Another time, she would have described the day as productive; today it feels more like procrastination. At 5:00 p.m., she reluctantly heads out, already wishing it were tomorrow.

She arrives home after a drive she can't remember making, parking in her driveway and listening to her car ping and hum as it shuts down. She hasn't planned dinner, so she'll most likely fall back on what she secretly calls "the widow's special": boiling pasta with burning tomato sauce. Her phone beeps with a text from Evan: Hope Duncans feeling better. Too bad he had to miss the basketball clinic. Feeling better? What's wrong with Duncan? Before she can act on the message, an alarm reminds her to collect Phoebe from her after-school program.

Diana walks across the street to the elementary school, where Phoebe is waiting at the side door. As Diana waves to the coordinator, Phoebe barrels into her arms, nearly knocking them over. Phoebe's face shines up at Diana, and for an instant, bathed in her daughter's love, Diana forgets about the letter, work, her grief, and stress. She stares at her daughter as if meeting her for the first time. This is what matters, Diana thinks, kissing the top of Phoebe's head. Phoebe tugs at her hand, impatient to go home to Bear Bear.

When they cross the street into their yard, Lakshmi comes out on her front porch and offers dinner. Diana wants to go inside more than anything. She needs to tell someone about the letter, and Lakshmi may be the only person who can hold conflicting ideas of Tom in her mind. But that will have to wait. Diana needs to track down Duncan. She tells Lakshmi not tonight, but promises to catch up tomorrow after Phoebe goes to bed, and she'll bring the wine.

The house is dark when they enter. As Phoebe chats about her day, Diana flips on light switches and hangs up their coats. She calls for Duncan but is met with silence. She has a feeling he's nearby and something is wrong. She sends Phoebe to unpack her backpack in the kitchen and goes upstairs. When she steps onto the landing, she hears a sniffle. Duncan's room is empty, bed unmade, laundry basket on its side. It takes seconds for Diana to realize where he is. She sprints down the hall, past Phoebe's bedroom, the window seat, the bathroom, and into her own bedroom. That's where she finds Duncan, crumpled on the floor, clutching Tom's letter.

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