The women in the group, including myself, get up to mingle. Lucy is behind me in line waiting to refill her white Styrofoam cup with the cheap stuff supplied by the library.

“Thank you for sharing today,” I say as I turn around and free up the coffeepot. “Your diagram was very helpful. I always like to learn new ways to process old feelings. I’m Charlotte, by the way.” I put out a hand for her to shake, and she accepts. Her fingers are cold, her nails are painted red. I don’t see that very much anymore on anyone: bright red nails. She reminds me of a receptionist at a dentist’s office.

“Oh, you’re most certainly welcome, Charlotte. Again, I’m Lucy. When did you lose your spouse, hon?” she asks as I pump a little expired pumpkin-spiced creamer into my barely drinkable java.

“Um, almost five years ago, actually. He died in an accident at a big race.”

I add that last detail because I’ve been to enough of these to know that the question of “how” is always what comes next.

“Like a marathon?”

“Yeah, kind of like that.”

“Oh, god. That is so hard,” Lucy says, validating me.

You may not notice, but there’s a widow code of ethics going on between us right now. I’ve ended my last sentence in a way that Lucy could hear the period I put on it. I’m not open to sharing more about how he died with her right now. So she won’t ask for more details.

“Anything in particular you’re struggling with today, Charlotte?”

Where do I begin?

“I’m worried about my memory of him,” I say.

“Ahh. Well, Charlotte, as someone who’s been widowed just a tad longer than you, I can assure you that the memories never go away. Sure, they fade a bit, but you’ll see something, or you’ll smell something, or a friend will mention something, and trust me, you’ll wind up right back on track.”

“Not like that,” I explain. “I’m worried that the perfect way I remember him, that everyone remembers him, might not be how he actually was. Don’t get me wrong—he wasn’t a bad guy or anything. It’s just, he had a past that not many people knew about, and ironically, it’s coming into frame now after he’s gone.”

Lucy smiles and nods. “I see. What happened to your husband’s cell phone after he died?”

“It was in the zip pocket of his shorts when he ran the race. It was smashed. I never got it.”

“Okay. I ask because my husband couldn’t have his phone on the floor at the plant, so he kept it in a storage locker. After he died, his company unlocked it for me and put all his belongings in a gallon-sized Ziplock baggie. His phone didn’t have a lock on it or anything. And I admit, I went through his phone. At first, just to look at old pictures. But then I listened to his voice mails and I read his texts. Gary never cheated on me, thank god. But, he had a horrible gambling problem that I had no idea about. He texted his bookie more than me. He withheld half his paycheck from me; I had no idea his salary was double what he was bringing home. It all went to betting. As disappointing as that was, I had hoped it would have led to a treasure trove of excess funds, but all it led to was a crippling bookie debt. I didn’t tell anyone about it. I’ve just been slowly inching toward squaring up with his bookie, taking weekly withdrawals from his life insurance policy. See any creamer around here?”