I sat on the edge of the guest bed with Sandra’s prayer journal in my lap and the date on that one page stopped me. It was written the day after Frank died. Three years ago now.

I should have closed it and put it right back in the drawer but I didn’t.

She had written that she was worried about me. Said she knew I was hurting and that I had never liked her much anyway. Then she asked God to soften my heart toward her. Just like that. No anger in the words. Just the same quiet way she always talked to me.

I closed the journal and sat there for a long time. My hip still aches some days even though the surgery was years back. Sandra drove me to every single appointment. She never once complained about the traffic or how early we had to leave. I used to sit in the passenger seat and stare out the window so I wouldn’t have to make small talk.

David met her at church. He was thirty two when they got married. I told him at the time that he was rushing into things. He just smiled and said he knew what he wanted. Sandra tried at first. She brought me flowers when they came over and asked about my garden. I told her the roses needed more sun and that was about all I gave her.

The first Christmas card I sent had her name spelled wrong. I wrote Sandy instead of Sandra. She never mentioned it. The next year I did it again on purpose. After a while it became one of those things nobody talked about but everybody noticed.

One Thanksgiving David pulled me aside in the kitchen. “Mom, can you please just try with her.” I told him she was the one who needed to try harder.

He didn’t say anything after that. Just went back to the table and sat next to her like always.

Frank used to ask me why I couldn’t let it go. I told him she wasn’t the girl I would have picked for our son. He said David didn’t ask me to pick. That was the last real talk we had about it before he got sick.

After Frank passed Sandra started bringing soup. She would leave it on the front step some days because she knew I didn’t want company. I ate it anyway. It was always good. I never told her.

The weeks after the funeral were quiet. David came by every Sunday but Sandra stayed in the car most times. I think she was giving me space. Or maybe she was tired of me. Either way I didn’t ask.