Mom passed away in February.

It was very sudden. Peaceful, the doctor said. In her sleep, in her own bed, in the house Dad built.

I'd seen her that Sunday. We'd had lunch at the diner. She'd had the crab cake. She'd beaten me at the crossword.

When I dropped her home, she'd stood on the porch and waved until my car turned the corner. She always did that. Every single Sunday for thirty years.

That was the last time.

I don't remember much about the week after. I know I made a lot of phone calls. I know I chose the hymns and the flowers and the photo for the front of the program. I know I sat in Mom's kitchen at two in the morning, holding her coffee cup, because it still had a lipstick mark on the rim.

Lauren and Kyle came the next day.

They hugged me. They cried. Then, while I was on the phone with the funeral home, I heard Lauren in the living room, walking around slowly.

I looked through the door.

She had a tape measure. She was measuring the windows.