“It’s understandable, Josh. We’re all thinking of her. All doing our best.”

“I know.”

“Honey, would you put the gubbröra in the red bowl?” his mother asked him with a perceptive look.

“Sure thing, Mom.”

He nodded at Ben and did as he was told.

Over dinner, Jen’s pregnancy was announced, and they all drank champagne, with apple juice for the mama-to-be and kids.

Then Jen raised her glass and said, “To my sister,” and they drank again, and Jen started crying, which made Donna cry, and Octavia joined in, and soon everyone was crying.

Except Josh (and the lab people). The tears didn’t come. He couldn’t talk around the lump in his throat or the ache in his chest. He nodded at the table, then picked up Octavia and brought her in to see the Christmas tree.

He was so tired. So tired of Lauren being dead. So tired of grief. Tired of well-wishers and hugs and a family that didn’t have Lauren in it anymore.

Sarah came in and put her arms around him and Octavia. Didn’t say anything, just leaned her head on his shoulder, and the ache in his chest became a knife, a dull, serrated knife that just about killed him.

Merry fucking Christmas.

“Thank you, Sarah,” he murmured. The lights on the tree winked, and Josh felt a hundred years old.

HE’D BEEN SMART enough to turn down invitations for Christmas Day, though his mom had hounded him to go to church with her, and Jen had pleaded with him to come watch the kids open their presents (at six a.m.). The forum had told him he could do whatever he wanted this first year of holidays without her, and so without much thought, he found himself heading east on I-195. Pebbles slept in the back seat, occasionally rousing to press her nose against the window.

The sky was gray, and there was no snow on the ground. Once he passed New Bedford, there were hardly any cars. Everyone was already where they were supposed to be. Everyone but him.

The Cape was quiet for the season, and the house they’d rented last summer was unoccupied. The shades were drawn, giving off a melancholy, lonely look. He pulled into the driveway, got out, and the smell of the ocean hit him hard. The thunderous crash of the surf brought him right back to the last time he’d been here. When he was still a husband. When his mission in life was to look after his wife.

Would the code to the door lock still work? Should he peek in the windows? No. It would hurt too much to see this place, empty without her laugh, her smile, her sparkliness.