the life David and I had protected and the version of that life my family had claimed.
I did not feel victorious.
I felt exhausted.
By the time we reached the temporary quarters arranged for me, the adrenaline had drained from my body and left my hands shaking.
The apartment was plain: a small kitchen, a couch, a bedroom, and a table beside a window.
Someone had stocked the refrigerator with bottled water, eggs, fruit, and the kind of ginger tea I had been drinking for morning sickness.
Those ordinary things nearly broke me more than the funeral had.
David used to stock the refrigerator before every one of my returns, even if he had only been home a few hours himself.
He never gave speeches about taking care of me.
He checked the tires, filled the gas tank, washed my coffee mug, and made sure there was food I
