At 5:02 on Thanksgiving morning, my phone vibrated against the kitchen counter.
I was already awake.
Sleep had become something I remembered rather than something I actually did.
My husband had been buried less than twelve hours earlier.
His name was Adrian Cole.
To most of my family, Adrian had been a quiet government consultant who traveled too often and spoke too little about his work.
To me, he had been my husband.
My best friend.
The father of the child moving beneath my heart.
And one of the bravest soldiers I had ever known.
I stared at the phone.
My older sister’s name appeared on the screen.
Victoria.
She was upstairs.
There was absolutely no reason for her to call me.
I answered anyway.
“There you are,” she said.
No hello.
No good morning.
No question about whether I had slept after burying my husband.
“Mom and Dad decided Raymond needs your bedroom.”
I said nothing.
Victoria continued.
“He has meetings all weekend, and he needs privacy.”
I looked through the kitchen window.
Frost covered the backyard.
The temperature outside was well below freezing.
“Where am I supposed to sleep?”
There was a pause.
