I thought the worst part of my day

Last week, Linda stood in the kitchen doorway, wringing her hands the way she did when she did not want to ask for something.

“Erica,” she said softly, “do you think we could stop by the grocery store?”

I looked up from the stack of bills on the table. “Sure. What do you need?”

“I wanted to bake Marcus’s favorite custard cake for the anniversary of his death,” she said.

My throat tightened as memories surfaced.