The notification arrived in a flash of light across my phone screen, bright enough to pull my eyes away from the quiet morning I’d been building with care.
Sun poured through the kitchen windows and landed in warm rectangles on the hardwood floors, turning the grain into little rivers of honey and amber. The air smelled like fresh coffee and faint lemon from the sponge I’d used to wipe down the counter. In my hands was my favorite mug, heavy and familiar, the ceramic worn smooth around the handle where my thumb always rested.
Robert had given it to me on our twentieth anniversary.
It had a small chip along the rim that I refused to fix. I liked that it wasn’t perfect. I liked that it had lived with us.
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