She rarely left the house.
Even her beloved crossword puzzles sat untouched.
“It’s no fun without your father insisting my answers are wrong,” she’d tell me.
I visited several times a week, bringing groceries and keeping her company.
About two months before the supermarket incident, Mom began sorting through Dad’s belongings.
One afternoon, I found her searching through drawers in his old oak desk.
She seemed unusually anxious.
“Looking for something?” I asked.
“Just an envelope.”
“Want help? Finding old documents is practically my specialty.”
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