I didn’t know what to say. I felt like a stranger to my own life. I had spent weeks fearing the man in the car, thinking he was a predator, when in reality, he was the final piece of the man I had loved for forty years.

“You can go home, Earl,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m alright. I really am.”

He nodded once, as if he had been waiting for that permission. He put his hat on his head, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb. He didn’t look back. I stood in the driveway until his taillights disappeared into the dark, feeling the immense, quiet hole he left behind.

I went inside and locked the door, but I didn’t check the bolt twice. I sat on the sofa where Lou used to nap, and for the first time since the funeral, I finally cried. It wasn’t because of the fear. It was because even when he was gone, he was still taking care of me.