Every inch of this cabin was designed for me. It’s everything I’ve dreamed of remodeling our home into one day. I’ve talked about it for years; from the moment we bought the house, I talked about knocking out all the interior walls and installing thick exposed beams and making it a boho, industrial-chic wonderland of coziness and color and warmth. I talked about it, but we never got around to it. There was always another book to write, another signing tour, another book-to-movie project for him to oversee, another week of double shifts at the hospital and then vacations to Italy or Spain or Iceland, where we’d spend a week playing tourist in exchange for twelve hours of him signing books and taking photographs.

It makes my eyes sting. Did he have this cabin remodeled into this, for me? Or did he find it like this and know it was meant for me, perfect for me?

My knees wobble as I explore.

The fridge is stocked—everything is straight from my personal grocery list. Everything he knew I would buy is here, from my favorite brand of ice cream to my favorite cans of flavored sparkling water, low-GI pasta, no sugar added condiments. Our own pantry, fridge, and freezer back home have been, in effect, lifted and transported here.

I browse the cabinets: Le Creuset pots and pans, cast iron skillets, deep pasta boiling pots, stoneware omelet pans. Even my preferred brand of kitchen utensils are here. A cabinet full of hand-thrown mugs which he knew I’d love. One cabinet near the fridge opens up to reveal a hidden wine rack—filled with my favorite brands of red wine.

Another cabinet reveals dozens of bars of my favorite chocolate, Stevia sweetened and ultra-dark, sea-salt almond.

Adrian, god.

He did this for me.

How? When?

I head into the bedroom. The comforter is the exact same as the one we have at home, one I had imported from France at great expense, a rare indulgence for me. Thick, heavy, but breathable, velvety soft on the underside and wild with colorful arabesques on top. I run my hand over the comforter, and feel a million joyful, happy memories of Adrian and myself under this comforter bubble up inside. Folded on the foot end of the bed is my favorite blanket, a thick, fleecy, stretchy, soft, warm thing that I was only ever able to find on an obscure Etsy site. He found a duplicate, somehow. He knew how much I loved to wrap up in it and read, or watch TV with him. It’s a comfort item, that blanket. And here it is.

My eyes sting.

But there’s more.