Every night at 2 A.M., my 82-year-old neighbor cried over cinnamon-roll dough for a husband she buried five years ago.

Even from a distance, I could tell—

She was crying.

Not gently.

Not quietly.

Her shoulders shook as she rolled the dough, sprinkled cinnamon, then pressed her palms against the counter like it was the only thing keeping her upright.