Eleanor Wittmann shopped on Tuesdays because Tuesdays were quieter—fewer families, fewer reminders that she was now the only Wittmann left. At sixty-eight, she still drove herself. The old Honda started on the second turn, dependable as stubbornness. Her list was short: eggs, milk, bread, a couple frozen dinners she pretended she liked.
She parked far from the entrance out of habit, as if distance could prove something to her knees. The October air had teeth. She zipped her jacket up and brushed her thumb across the edge of her wallet. Inside was a creased photo of Michael in uniform. Two years, and his name still hurt.