“I'm glad you're happy, Howie.” And she was. Truly. Even though it ached a little to think that he could be happy without her. But that was only natural—right? The real point, the thing to focus on here, was that he was still her friend, that he had understood that she backed out of marrying him for his own good, because emotionally speaking she was a disaster on two feet and she didn't want to inflict the train wreck that was her life on him. Howie, bless him forever, had understood the backing-out thing for the act of love that it was. “I mean that—about me being happy you're happy, Howie,” she added.

“Thanks.” He paused for a second, then chose his words carefully, “Listen … sweetheart, why don't you hold off on clearing out your mother's apartment for a few weeks? Give yourself a break.”

Because if I don't do it right now, I'll never be able to. “I'm cool. Really.”

“Of course you are!” he said, way too heartily. “I know that!”

“Thanks. Night, Howie … well… good morning.” She started to hang up, but his voice stopped her.

“Carrie?” he said. “You did get it right, yesterday. You got the memorial service right.”

“Thank you,” she said as she put down the phone. But Howie was wrong. Carrie's eyes shifted over to the doorway, where the basket of white roses sat on the floor.

“Would you like these?” the priest had asked her after the service was over. What she should have done was to tell him, vehemently, to toss the basket into the garbage. But the flowers were lovely, a soft off-white with just a touch of pinkish blush at the heart. In the days since Rose had died, there had been many speeches given about her. Her memorial service had been packed with people who had admired and respected her. But, per her instructions, there had not been one personal touch, not one moment in which anyone acknowledged that Rose Manning had been more than an icon, that she'd also been a widow, a daughter, and a mother. No one had thought to say good-bye with something extravagant and beautiful—except the clueless sender of the white roses.

“Yes, I want them,” Carrie had said to the priest, and she had taken the basket out of his hands and brought the roses home.

I failed you, Mother. I'm sorry.