On the day of my husband’s funeral, I walked back to our apartment. My black dress felt like wet paper against my skin.

We weren’t in Spain anymore. We were in St. Augustine, Florida, where the air smells like rain and hot pavement. I climbed the stairs to the third floor with my shoes in my hand, trying to delay the moment I had to go inside.

When I finally opened the door, I didn’t find the quiet home I expected.

I found …