It has been eight months. Beth started therapy that same week — her idea — and separated from Craig in the spring; the divorce filing, I’m told, mentions financial matters I’ve chosen not to ask about, because her marriage’s autopsy is her business. She comes to Sunday dinner alone now, early, and peels the potatoes, and we are rebuilding something that will always have a scar in it, which is all right, because scars are just proof the wound didn’t win. The house is exactly where it’s always been, holding its $400,000 of equity and doing, contrary to reports, quite a lot: it’s holding forty years of Christmases, one recorded trust, and a pot roast every Sunday. People ask if I ever confronted her about the voicemail before dinner, whether I considered just calling and crying and having it out. I didn’t, and here’s why: at 76, you know the difference between being loved and being managed, and you know that the people planning to manage you will only believe strength they can see. So I let them come to dinner. I do wish Craig had finished his pie, though. It was his favorite. I made it from scratch, the same way I made everything else that Sunday — carefully, on purpose, and entirely myself.