Our first Christmas in Colorado was quiet.

Emma came home from college.

We cooked too much food.

It snowed.

Around four in the afternoon, Mark disappeared onto the back porch.

I found him watching the mountains.

“You okay?”

He nodded.

“Mom texted.”

He handed me his phone.

Merry Christmas. We miss you.

That was all.

No accusation.

No plumbing question.

No guilt.

I handed the phone back.

“What are you going to say?”

“The truth.”

He typed:

Merry Christmas. We miss you too.

He sent it.

Then he put his arm around me.

In March, we flew back for my father-in-law’s birthday.

It was our first visit.

Patricia hugged Mark for a very long time.

He hugged her back.

No one mentioned the inheritance.

Not at first.

Then, after dinner, my father-in-law asked Mark to step into the den.

I stayed in the kitchen with Patricia.

She rinsed dishes.

I dried.

For several minutes we spoke only about Emma.

Then Patricia said, “He seems happy.”

“Mark?”

“Yes.”

“He is.”

She placed a plate into the rack.

“I didn’t realize how unhappy he was here.”

“He wasn’t unhappy.”

She looked at me.

“That’s what he says.”

“He was tired.”

Patricia lowered her eyes.

“I suppose that’s worse.”

I didn’t answer.

She rubbed a spot from the counter that wasn’t there.

“Do you think he hates us?”

“No.”

Her head came up.

I meant it.

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“Then why does it feel like everything changed?”

“Because it did.”

She flinched.

I softened my voice.

“Patricia, Mark spent years showing love by being useful. I think everyone forgot those were two different things.”

Her eyes filled.

“We never asked him to give up his life.”

I thought of three Denver offers.

“No,” I said. “You only made it clear how much easier your lives were if he did.”