I froze.
It was pale lavender cotton, with tiny embroidered flowers at the cuffs. Helen had worn it every Sunday morning. After she died, I folded it carefully and placed it in the cedar chest at the foot of my bed.
Melissa leaned against the counter and yawned.
“Morning, Mr. Bennett. You’re dressed up. Going somewhere?”
I stared at the robe.
“Take that off.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“That belonged to my wife.”
Melissa glanced down and smirked. “It was just sitting in that dusty old chest. I figured nobody was using it.”
Nobody.
The word cut through me like a blade.
Before I could answer, Brian shuffled in, barefoot, hair messy, still wearing yesterday’s wrinkled shirt.
“What’s with the suit?” he asked.
“I have appointments.”
He opened the refrigerator. “Can you make coffee?”
I looked at my son.
He did not look ashamed. He did not look sorry. He did not even seem aware that anything had happened.
That told me more than the dog bowl ever could.
“No,” I said.
