“And this must be Jacob,” Dorothy cooed, bending down. “Last time I saw him, he was in a carrier. You look just like your father.”

“Michael was a good man,” she added, her voice dropping to a sympathetic whisper that felt more intrusive than comforting.

Jacob shyly clung to my leg, burying his face in the fabric of my dress. His memories of Michael were like watercolor paintings left in the rain—blurred and fading—but I kept them alive with stories. Michael had been an architect, a man of structure and kindness. He had left us a substantial life insurance policy, a final act of protection that allowed us to keep our home. It was a safety net I guarded with the ferocity of a lioness.