Pastor Thomas leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. He looked at me with a profound, quiet kindness. “Margaret,” he said softly, “the Lord is in Arizona, too. God is not confined to the city limits of this town, and neither is Arthur’s spirit.

Arthur loved Sarah more than anything. What do you think he would tell you to do?” I knew what Arthur would say. He would have had his bags packed before Sarah even hung up the phone. But knowing what Arthur would do doesn’t stop the deep, aching panic in my chest.

My pastor says the Lord is in Arizona. My arthritic knees, my empty house, and my terrifying fear of the unknown say otherwise. Sarah needs an answer by the first of the month. She needs to know if she should convert the guest room into my bedroom, or if she needs to somehow figure out how to afford a full-time night nurse on a single military income.

Which brings me to tonight. The phone is ringing again. It’s sitting on the coffee table, buzzing violently against the wood, lighting up the dim room. I know it’s her. I know she’s probably sitting in a hard plastic chair in the NICU, watching her tiny, fragile babies fight for oxygen, waiting for her mother to be the safety net she so desperately needs.

I stared at the phone. Then, I looked up at the mantle, where Arthur’s framed photograph sits next to a dried rose from his funeral. His eyes looked back at me, crinkled at the corners, forever frozen in a moment of pure joy. I took a deep, shuddering breath.

I reached out, my hand trembling so badly I almost dropped the device, and swiped the green button to accept the call. “Mama?” her voice crackled through the speaker, exhausted and small. “I’m here, Sarah,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’m here.” “Did you… did you decide?” she asked, the hope in her voice so fragile it sounded like it might shatter.

I closed my eyes, picturing the stone bench at Whispering Pines, picturing the empty fourth pew at church, picturing the life I was about to dismantle.

I let the tears fall, hot and fast down my wrinkled cheeks. “I’m coming, sweetie,” I whispered into the dark room.

“I’m going to list the house on Monday. I’ll be there before the babies come home.” She broke down crying again, this time with relief, thanking me over and over. We stayed on the phone for another hour, making plans, talking about flights and moving trucks.

When I finally hung up, the silence of the house rushed back in, louder and heavier than before. I walked over to the mantle and picked up Arthur’s picture. I traced his face through the glass. It hurts to leave him. It hurts more than I can possibly explain to anyone who hasn’t had to walk away from the resting place of their soulmate.