I had one, too. A widow stereotype. But I’ve been to enough support groups not to be shocked when I see a fellow widow in her twenties. To Casey, it feels like a widow should be an older woman. Not necessarily an old woman, just someone...older than me and old enough to have had time to earn that label. I picture someone my mom’s age who seems like she’s carrying emotional baggage, not someone who has yet to celebrate her thirtieth birthday.

“Well, I am. The package sitting on our kitchen floor confirms it.”

“In case you were wondering if I’d be cool with it, I am,” she says. “You can keep him at our place as long as you want. In fact, I think it’s rad that you get to have a death do-over of sorts.”

“A what?”

“You know, like a second chance at dealing with his death. Think of one thing that bothers you about how it all went down, and change it.”

Casey polishes off the rest of her Guinness, lets out an audible belch, and heads to the bathroom. She couldn’t be more Courtney Love if she tried, down to the wiry bob that’s styled with god-only-knows-what goop.

There are a million things that bother me about Decker’s death. Starting with the fact that he died at all. We were married less than a year. Yes, I’ve been a widow for much longer than I ever was a wife.

Also, I didn’t even know he wanted to be cremated. I was twenty-five years old when he died; he was twenty-seven. It wasn’t something we’d had the chance to discuss yet over a bottle of pinot noir and all-you-can-eat sushi. Unfortunately, “not knowing” or “never discussed it” weren’t valid excuses, and it opened the door for Debbie Austin—my Know-It-All mother-in-law—to swoop in, take over, and decide Decker was going to Pala.

The buzz of an incoming text message lights up my Apple Watch. It’s my mom.

Sorry, was sleeping. Give my grand dog a squeeze! PS what’s in the box, J.Crew sale?

It hits me that the box I thought had a hard drive in it—the one I photographed and sent to my mother while trying to score some mom-points—actually contained the ashes of her former son-in-law. Right now, Jean Rosen thinks I splurged on a J.Crew summer sale and I’m fine with letting her believe that’s the case. This whole situation isn’t something I can explain in a text. Not to my mother. Not to his mother. But I know I’ll have to fill both of them in eventually.

Night, Char. I love you, she sends next.

I turn the phone to black and get a little squeamish. “I love you”s at the end of a conversation, especially ones via text, gut me. My mom could get hit by a city bus crossing the street tomorrow morning and our last conversation would have been about a faux J.Crew delivery, but take it from someone who actually has experience doling out famous last words: you don’t always get what you want in that department.