Then came the question I knew someone would eventually ask.

“Do you still think of her as your wife?”

I stared at the ring.

“Yes.”

I paused.

“That doesn’t mean I’m finished being angry.”

The following morning, I walked into the kitchen and automatically reached for two coffee mugs.

My hand stopped halfway.

For sixty years, I had made two cups.

Irene’s mug remained on the shelf.

I made only one.

Then I went into the living room.

I turned our wedding photograph upright again.

And I picked up my ring.

Irene had taken away my chance to decide what her truth meant while she was still alive.

I could never get that choice back.

But I could choose what happened next.

I slipped the ring onto my finger.

Then I looked at her photograph.

“I’m still angry with you,” I said.

I sat in the chair beside hers and drank my coffee.