“The robe,” she said. “In your bedroom. Mom told me to hang it there. She said it was the master and it should be ours. And the photo, the one of your husband. Mom said it was ‘too much.’ She said a bride shouldn’t come home to a dead man on the mantel.”
My throat got tight.
“I should have stopped her,” Blythe said. “I just stood there. I always just stand there.”
I looked at this young woman, twisting her napkin into a little rope.
“Blythe,” I said. “Do
