Richard and I had been married for thirty-seven years.
We raised two children on the South Side of Chicago.
We survived layoffs, overdue mortgage payments, one brutal winter with no heat, and the slow decline of his mother, who lived with us for seven years before she died.
We were never a soft, romantic couple.
Richard was not a man who filled rooms with tenderness.
He fixed things, paid bills, carried groceries, and believed that was close enough to love.
Still, for most of our marriage, I knew where I stood.
