The duplex apartment in the hundred-year-old brownstone seemed to leak heat from every window and door. The cost of oil was sky-high, and money was tight, so my mother and I kept the temperature as low as we could stand it. But on the morning of Ben’s second birthday, on a quiet Saturday, we cranked up the heat to make sure our home felt comfortable for all the visitors we’d invited to help celebrate over lunch. Today marked another event, as well, at least in my mind: It was the final deadline I had set for any remaining shred of hope that Mac was out there somewhere, alive. All the holidays had passed without a word or sign that he was still in this world, that he remembered us. And I hadn’t heard anything from Lucky Herman since the one time we’d spoken on the phone. I had told myself that if Mac didn’t miraculously reappear today, if he failed to remember our son’s birthday, he had to be dead. It really was over. I would acquiesce to the obvious and embrace my second widowhood.
