The silver quarter was always there before I even opened my eyes, sitting right next to my glass of water.

For forty-three years, that was my normal. My husband, Arthur, was always the early riser in our house.

He would slip out of the covers around five in the morning, quiet as a mouse, to go start the coffee. I would hear the floorboards creak just a little. Then I would hear the tiny, distinct metal clink against the wood of my nightstand.

Sometimes, if I was half-awake, he would reach over and pat my shoulder. He would whisper, “Sleep a bit longer, sweetheart.” Then he would go downstairs.

When I finally got up, there it was. A quarter. It was always heads-up.

To be honest with you, I got so used to it that I stopped really seeing it. It became like the wallpaper or the old oak tree in the front yard. It was just there. I used to sweep them into an old blue ceramic jar on my dresser. Over the decades, that jar got heavy. We used the quarters for laundry when we were young, then for the parking meters, and later on, we used them to buy ice cream cones for our grandchildren.

I never asked him why he did it. I suppose I just thought it was his own quirky little habit. Arthur was a quiet man, bless his heart. He was never one for big speeches or writing long love letters. He showed his love by changing the oil in my car and fixing the squeaky step on the porch. So I just let him have his little coin routine.

But then, this past November, Arthur went to sleep and he didn’t wake up.

It was very peaceful, the doctor said. His heart just decided it was tired.

But peace for him meant a very sudden, very cold kind of empty for me.

The first morning without him was the hardest. I woke up at five out of habit, waiting for the floorboards to creak. The house was dead silent. I turned my head toward the nightstand.

There was nothing there but my water glass.

I reached out my hand and touched the bare wood. It was cold. I think that was the moment I realized he was actually gone. I cried so hard my ribs hurt. It is funny how the human mind works. I was mourning my husband of over four decades, but the thing that made me feel like my world had ended was the lack of a twenty-five cent coin.

My daughter, Sarah, was worried about me being alone, so she had my nine-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, come stay with me through Christmas. Sophie is a sweet, observant little thing. She has Arthur’s quiet eyes, the kind of eyes that look like they are always figuring something out.