Prologue: The Stitch That Snapped

My name is Beatrice Eleanor Walsh—Bea to those who love me. At eighty-three, I thought I knew every lesson grief and grace could teach. I was wrong. One September evening, a single harsh laugh in a ballroom full of crystal and cameras snapped a stitch I’d been tightening around my heart for years—and everything unraveled, in the best possible way.

The House Henry Built

I still live on Willow Lane, in the cottage my husband Henry raised from dirt and dreams in 1963. It’s no palace—three creaking bedrooms, a kitchen that fits two if they agree to dance—but his hands are in the hinges, in the window latches, in the boards that still groan like old men when winter settles in. Henry’s been gone two decades. I still sleep on “his side” and catch myself reaching across the dark for a warmth that isn’t there.