For fifty-two years, my Orval went out ten minutes early on every single cold morning. He would head out to the driveway in his slippers and his old flannel robe while the sky was still dark and purple.

I would stay inside, fussing with the coffee pot or folding laundry, just watching him through the kitchen window.

He would start the car, sit there for a bit, and then come back inside to tell me it was ready for me. I always called it fussing. I told him we would probably bake to death in a car that was too warm one of these days. He never got mad. He just smiled that slow, quiet smile of his and went back to his paper.

Orval died in September. It was quiet and sudden, just like he always said he wanted it to be. The house stayed silent for weeks after the funeral. I kept expecting to hear the back door creak open or see his boots by the mudroom rug, but the house just stayed empty.

The first frost came in November. It was a sharp, biting morning where the grass looked like it had been dusted with powdered sugar. I had a doctor appointment in town and I was already running behind. I grabbed my coat and my purse, and I walked out to the driveway without really thinking about it.

I pulled the door handle. The metal was freezing under my hand. I slid into the driver seat and the air in the cabin was like ice. My breath came out in a thick white cloud in front of me. I sat there for a second, shivering, and my hands started to ache from the cold steering wheel.

I remember thinking how silly it was to feel so angry about a cold car. It was just a car. But the seat was ice, and the floor was ice, and I felt so incredibly alone. I went to reach for the ice scraper in the glovebox, but it was jammed. I tugged at it, and a stack of old papers tumbled out onto the floor mat.

I started gathering them up. There were old receipts, some expired insurance cards, and a few napkins with notes scrawled on them. Then I saw it. It was a little index card, the edges soft and frayed from years of being handled. It was tucked away in the back, nearly hidden.

I squinted at the handwriting. It was Orval’s, back when it was still neat and careful. It was dated the winter of 1962. That was the year we started dating.

The card didn’t say much. It was just a few lines, printed in dark blue ink. She almost didn’t come out on our first date, it said. Her hands were so cold. I promised myself then that as long as I lived, my Winnie would never have to touch a cold steering wheel again.