Wednesday crawled by like a dental procedure you couldn’t reschedule. I spent the day doing thrilling widow activities—dusting Robert’s books, deadheading roses, and wondering what my charming new son‑in‑law wanted to discuss over what would undoubtedly be overpriced wine.

Thursday evening arrived with all the enthusiasm of a tax audit. I dressed for my role as modest widow—simple black dress that suggested respectability without prosperity, paired with my mother’s pearl earrings and Robert’s broken watch that still looked dignified from a distance.

The restaurant Marcus had chosen was one of those places where they pronounce “water” with a French accent and the waiters look at you like you’re personally responsible for their artistic disappointment. He was already seated when I arrived, looking every inch the successful young executive.

“Sylvia,” he practically levitated from his chair. “You look absolutely radiant.”

“Thank you, dear. This place certainly is something.”

And it was something, all right—the kind of something that made you wonder if they charged extra for the privilege of feeling inadequate. We ordered wine. He insisted on a bottle that probably had more syllables than my high‑school diploma, and settled into what he clearly thought would be an easy conversation. He began swirling his wine like a sommelier with delusions of grandeur.

“How are you managing life on your own?”