I stared at the screen until it blurred. Then I turned off the phone, took another sip of wine, and looked up at the photo on the wall—George and me on our fortieth anniversary, standing beside the rose bushes he planted with his own hands. They used to bloom red and full. Now they were bare.

Tomorrow, I thought, I’ll call the lawyer. I’ll make changes quietly, with the same dignity George lived with. Because if I was the only one who showed up for his last goodbye, I would be the only one to carry out his final will—and mine.

That evening, I sat alone in our kitchen. It was the same room where George used to peel apples with the precision of a surgeon, slicing them into neat little crescents and lining them on a plate. He would always offer me the best piece.

“The one with the most sunshine,” he called it.

Now the fruit bowl sat untouched, a couple of overripe pears sagging under their own skin. The silence wasn’t unfamiliar. George had been gone for nearly two weeks before the funeral, and those days had already begun teaching me the shape of solitude.