He spent the rest of our shopping trip dramatically apologizing to shelves and shopping baskets.

That was Steven.

He could make me laugh at the most ordinary things.

We’d been married for thirty-four years when he passed away the previous year.

Since then, the world had felt different.

Not impossible.

Just unfamiliar.

Traveling alone was one of the things I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to.

But this trip was special.

I was flying across the country to meet my first grandchild.

My daughter, Marianne, had recently given birth to a beautiful baby girl named Rose.

For weeks, she’d been sending me photographs.

Rose sleeping.

Rose yawning.

Rose wearing tiny knitted outfits.

Rose curled up with one little fist beside her cheek.

I had already saved enough pictures to fill an entire album.

And now I was finally going to hold her.

Marianne called me twice on the morning of my departure.