PART 1
My name is Amelia. I was thirty-five years old when I returned to Portland after burying my husband in a country thousands of miles from home.
James had died suddenly while working in Singapore. He was only thirty-seven. I had spent days navigating hospitals, paperwork, and funeral arrangements by myself because my parents said international flights were too expensive, while my brother, Troy, claimed he could not leave work.
After more than thirty exhausting hours of travel, I turned on my phone as the plane landed.
My flight arrives at five. Can someone pick me up?
Troy replied first.
We’re busy. Take an Uber.
My mother followed.
Why didn’t you arrange this earlier? You know Tuesdays are hectic.
I stared at the messages in disbelief. They spoke as though my husband’s death had been a scheduling mistake.
