For thirty-two years, they had been the steady center of my life. My father had built our home with his own hands on Cedar Ridge Road, and my mother had filled it with laughter and the smell of cinnamon every winter. Now the house, along with everything they had worked for, belonged to me.
I hadn’t even begun to process that truth.
My husband, Nathan Holloway, stood a few steps behind me during the funeral, his arms folded, his expression unreadable. He had not cried. He had not said a word. At the time, I told myself he was simply uncomfortable with grief.
Now I realized something very different had been happening behind those quiet eyes.
The snow had grown heavier by the time we walked back toward the car. The cemetery parking lot was nearly empty now, the other mourners already disappearing down the long winding road that led back into town.
I slid into the passenger seat of our dark blue sedan, rubbing my hands together in an attempt to bring feeling back into my fingers. The heater blasted warm air against my face, but it felt strangely wrong, like comfort arriving far too late.
Nathan climbed into the driver’s seat, shaking snow from his coat and brushing it off the dashboard.
