After my husband’s funeral, I returned home with my black dress still clinging to my skin. I opened the door… and found my mother-in-law and eight family members packing suitcases as if it were a hotel.

He had looked pale then.

So pale it seemed as though something fragile and final was glowing beneath his skin.

The monitors blinked steadily.

Rain dragged itself down the hospital window in thin silver lines.

He squeezed my hand with the last of his strength and made me repeat his instructions back to him.

Call Elena.

Do not argue.

Do not let them take anything.

And laugh first.

At the time, I thought the morphine had made him dramatic.

Bradley was not a dramatic man.

That was one of the reasons I loved him.

But then he said, more clearly, ‘They won’t come as family, Avery.

They’ll come as collectors.’