“Shall we unwrap these?” I say, pointing to the presents.

“Why not?”

There are no kitchen utensils, nothing that assumes we are setting up home together. Everything about the gifts screams (to me) second marriage. There is a set of his-and-hers dressing gowns and slippers, a Cooking for Your Family–type recipe book, and the strangest one is an unlabeled, homemade gift: a badly engraved plaque-type thing. I’m not sure if it’s an ornament or something to hang on the wall, with words declaring that love is wonderful but difficult.

“What shall we do with this?” I say to Stuart.

“Up to you,” he says. “I really need that glass of wine now.”

I don’t blame him.

As he uncorks the bottle, I fill up some vases with water. I lift up the flowers from the kitchen counter and shove them in, not bothering to neaten or straighten the arrangements. I open the first small card attached to the cellophane and read the congratulations and good wishes out loud to Stuart. I don’t recognize the names of the couple who sent them, but Stuart assures me that they’re old friends of his.

As I open the second envelope, I notice that the white carnations in the second vase are already wilting and browning around the edges. That should have been enough of a clue for me, I realize, annoyed at my lack of awareness as I read out loud yet another spite-filled message, which ends with the line:

“Hope your marriage lasts as long as these flowers.”

As Stuart dumps them in the bin, I pour him another large glass of red and take a sip myself.

“Just put it out of your mind,” he says, taking a gulp. “No amount of misplaced, anonymous disapproval can alter that we’re husband and wife now.”

True. However much it secretly offends someone, nothing can change the fact that everything that was Nina’s is now mine.

Stuart has left a lot of decisions up to me. He’s “easy.”

The first decision is my surname. I’ve decided to take his purely because of the children. I don’t want my name to make me stand out as not being their real mother.

Another elephant in the room decision which has been left to me is Where We Sleep.

I thought about it long and hard and came to the only decision I could. I decided to move into his. It is the master bedroom, after all. It makes the most sense. I ordered new bedroom furniture, paid for express delivery and to have the old bed, chairs and drawers removed. I will no longer refer to it as Nina’s old room. It is not. It is mine and Stuart’s.

Yet, something I never considered (or fully appreciated) is that despite my familiarity with the house, I had never used Nina’s shower, never hung a towel on the heated rail, never negotiated my way around her bathroom or sat in front of the dressing table as I dry my hair, put on my makeup or whatever. Even though the furniture is new, it’s mostly arranged in the same positions because of the location of the fitted wardrobes, doors and windows.