After my husband’s death, I often go to bed hungry. I only make hearty meals on holidays when my son visits me. This year, he got married. It was during the Christmas holidays, and I was so excited to celebrate with him and his wife. I cooked them dinner, and his wife suddenly came up to me and shocked me with words that will always haunt me.

She took my hand gently as we stood in the kitchen, the warmth from the stove filling the room. “Margaret, can we talk?” she asked softly, her eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite place. I nodded, expecting perhaps a simple conversation about the meal or the decorations.

“Margaret,” she began, taking a deep breath, “I know you’ve been struggling since Henry passed. It’s been hard for you, and I can see how much you miss him. But there’s something I need to say, and I hope you’ll understand.”