At midnight Mass on Christmas Day, I felt Will’s presence close in the hard, narrow pew. I longed for his arm around my shoulder, for the faint smell of his after-shave, and the scratch of his beard bristles against my cheek.
I remembered other Christmas Masses, with Will pretending to be stern with his bored, wriggling children. I guessed that among Charlotte and Sid’s memories was the father who had loved all the accoutrements of Christmas—the turkey, the tree, and the gifts. Later, the day was marked by excited children, an overcooked turkey, and a sense of change none of us seemed to want. I was glad when it was over, when the little boys were strapped into their parents’ car, when Celine kissed me and said ‘Be safe, Alice’, when Sid took me into his arms in a hug, speechless with tea
