Seb typed a few keystrokes and paid Con Ed, then navigated to his National Grid bill. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“No, maybe, I don’t know,” Muriel repeated, pursing her lips. “How eloquent.”

Seb chuckled so that he wouldn’t roll his eyes at his mother-in-law. “I mean, it’s not for the same reasons as it used to be. But every time I make progress and move on a little more, I get so sad.”

He could feel Muriel’s eyes on his face and a familiar feeling of dissection gripped him. Cora had been able to do this, too. Just look at him and peel back the skin from muscle, the muscle from bone. Cora had said it was easy with Seb because he was such a big, innocent target. His dumb, blunt face showed every emotion. He stopped pretending to go line by line through the bill on the screen of his laptop and looked up at Muriel. The second their eyes clashed, she was back concentrating on the toaster.

“I don’t know why that should make you sad. You’re supposed to move on after someone dies.”

She was being obstinate. But if she hadn’t been, Seb would probably have plunked her in the car and raced her to a neurologist. “Right. But sometimes moving on feels like leaving her behind. For a long time, grief felt like my only connection to her. And...” he swallowed hard “...a part of me doesn’t want to lose that, too.”

Muriel’s back was ramrod-straight as she attacked the toaster with fresh vengeance. Seb read through her lines, a skill that had been extremely hard-won, and realized that she understood what he meant, even if she’d never admit it. Muriel looked up at the backyard through the window over the sink and suddenly banged on it so hard the glass shook in its boots.

“Art!” she hollered at her husband through the glass. He and Matty were playing in the backyard. “Put down the newspaper and untangle your grandson’s pants from the fence!”

Whether Art heard her through the glass or not, Seb wasn’t sure, but he watched Muriel eye the backyard for another few seconds before she resumed her scrubbing. “Just another pair of pants to mend along with the khakis he ripped the pocket off of,” she muttered to herself.

Seb sighed, turning back to his laptop. Conversation over, he supposed.

Muriel finished with the toaster and set it back on the counter, snapping off the rubber gloves and rinsing them, laying them out to dry. She immediately checked the roast in the oven and started dismantling the fridge for salad fixings. “Well, that’s just silly,” she said into the vegetable drawer.

Seb’s hand froze over the keyboard. “I’m sorry?”

“Feeling regret that your grief is receding is silly. And a waste of time. You should be grateful.”

“Well—”

“And of course your grief isn’t your only connection to Cora. You have your son. And you have all of your memories of her.” She slapped a bag of romaine on the counter and didn’t turn around. “And of course you have Art and me.”