"Yes, I am. What are you?”

"It's hard to believe you’re the older sibling."

My response was to grunt into my cereal. I wasn’t equipped to verbally spar with her on my best days, let alone one that followed an emotionally exhausting evening. I just wanted to eat my cereal and read the new messages on the knitting message board that I’d pulled up on my phone.

“We can’t all look like fashion plates.” I squinted at her, taking in the high-waisted shorts, off-the-shoulder midriff top, and high-heeled cork sandals. “Is this normal weekend attire for kids these days?” I gestured at her outfit.

“This is everyday attire for normal people.” She set one hand on a bony hip and struck an I’m-too-good-for-this pose.

“Normal people are exhausting then.” Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to my phone where I could read the debate about whether wool or acrylic yarn should be used for knitting baby booties and hats. I liked both and acrylic was very soft but lots of people thought babies should only be in natural fibers. That was about as an important of a discussion as I could handle this morning. “I told David you were going to be the one to take over the firm in eight years.”

“Ooh, you had lunch with the Andersons?” She rushed over to take a seat at the table. “Was Tucker there?”

“You do know that Tucker is old enough to be your dad, right?” Bitsy’s weird crush on Will’s older brother was funny in theory but kind of scary if it was real. “Aren’t there guys your own age you can date?”

"No one dates anymore, Sam." Bitsy sighed dramatically. Man, only a few years out of high school and I didn't even understand the mating rituals anymore. Coffee for sex and no dating. Actually, Will and I never really dated either. We’d moved from childhood friends to something more when we both realized that there were stronger feelings than just friendship.

"So what do you do? Hang out? Hook up? Cavort?”

“Cavort?"

"You know, fool around.”

Even though she made no sound, I could tell she was rolling her eyes.

“Cavort is an old lady word,” she mocked.

“I feel old,” I said, stretching my arms out. “I feel eighty.”

“It’s because you hang out with old ladies all the time.”

“They aren’t all old ladies,” I protested. She was referring to my grief support group, the Yarn Over Widows Knitting Club. “I think some of them are in their fifties.”

“Mom’s not even that old!”

“Husbands don’t usually die when they’re in their twenties,” I pointed out, quickly regretting it when Bitsy’s face fell. Hurriedly, I added, “Anyway, can you be sure to tell Mom that you’re going to take over the firm when Mom and David are ready to retire.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh, no. I don’t want to be a lawyer. I’m going to do something else.”

“Like what?”

“Not sure, but it’s going to be fun and awesome.”

“I hope so, Little Bit.” I wanted her to be happy. Hell, I wanted to be happy, I realized, but I think my little sister had a better idea of how to achieve her goals than I did.

“So was Tucker there?” She was like a dog going after a bone, persistent and relentless. Actually that was all Mom right there. I was more like Dad—letting things come to me instead of pursuing things.

No.” I shoveled the rest of my cereal into my mouth and then added more dry cereal to soak up the remaining milk. “At our last anniversary luncheon, Tucker yelled at his dad, and they almost got into a fist fight. Carolyn cried, and I wanted to crawl under the table.” Two years ago, Tucker had started law school. When Will died, Tucker had dropped out and started inking people. Life was too short to live the life other people wanted for you, he'd told me. So I guess Tucker's dream was to be a tattoo artist, because that's what he was doing now. “But it’d be nice if he came to hold his mom’s hand.”

“Mom says that Carolyn needs to learn to hold her own hand.” Bitsy took the cereal from me and poured herself a bowl.

Holding Carolyn up emotionally was an exhausting task and I wished Tucker would help me since his father wouldn’t. “He’s still a selfish jerk and way too old for you.”

“Mom says I’m an old soul.” No, Bitsy, I thought, you’re so bright, shiny and new my heart aches at your beauty. I wished I still had that look. Instead, I felt dull and used and, after last night, rejected. When I had woken up, the memory of Gray telling me he had to get out of my condo was the first thing that popped into my mind—not the long meaningful discussion we’d had afterwards. The invitation to do something adventurous felt like a pity date rather than a genuine desire to spend more time with me. I felt foolish and embarrassed.

“What does Mom say?” questioned our mother as she walked into the breakfast room dressed in slacks and a blouse. She must be meeting clients at the office today.

“That you work too hard,” I said affectionately. Mom leaned down and kissed both of our heads.

“Someone’s got to keep you girls in cereal,” she teased and went over to make herself a cup of coffee. “Your father says hello by the way and would like for you to Skype him tomorrow.” Dad was over in England teaching a summer fellowship on comparative American Lit at Cambridge.

A horn honked outside and Bitsy jumped up, kissing Mom goodbye and running out the door. A cloud of perfume and hairspray threatened to choke me as she sprinted past.

“Bad night?” Mom sat in Bitsy’s now-empty chair and pushed the abandoned cereal bowl aside.

I considered lying to Mom, but I hadn’t been able to get away with it when I was a teen and I doubted I’d get away with it now.

“Just felt a little lonely, I guess,” I admitted.

She mmhmmed mysteriously but didn’t say anything else, just sipped her coffee and looked at me like I wasn’t spilling all my secrets. I knew this trick. She’d once told me that the best way to get someone to start talking was to be quiet because people hated uncomfortable silences. Trying to resist the pull of her unspoken command, I looked everywhere but her. After not even a minute had gone by, I started blurting it all out.

“I met a guy last night and he…” There were limits to what I wanted to share so I tried to think of some euphemisms to describe what he’d done, what we’d done together.

“You were making out with some stranger in the hallway of Gatsby’s?” Mom offered with a choking laugh.

I pounded my head on the table. “Teresa Bush right? I thought she was too bombed to remember anything. She tried to pull down her dress and show me her tattoo, for crying out loud.”

Mom nodded with a smile. “Yes, Teresa wasn’t too drunk to remember seeing you being led away by a man god—I think that was the phrase that Teresa used—and then she watched as you…” Mom paused and tapped her chin, clearly searching for the most embarrassing way to put it. “Oh yes, acted out the first scenes in a porno.”

“Mom,” I moaned. “Really? I’m trying to eat. Don’t you have people to sue?”

“The great thing about the courts moving to electronic filing is that I can sue people twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. That means I can take time out to eat breakfast with my eldest daughter,” she said cheerfully and then took another sip of her coffee.

“Oh my god, Mom.”

“So I wondered why you weren’t at your shrine with your man god but rather in my kitchen. Was it just a one-night stand? Or hook up, as you kids are calling it these days.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to go outside and commit Seppuku.”

“You girls embarrass so easily.” Mom smirked at me and took a big sip of her coffee.

“Do you really think it is a shrine? My condo,” I clarified. Within the walls pieces of Will were present. His old assault pack rested against my sofa and his combat boots were up against the wall. In my closet hung his combat and service uniforms. His mother and I had taken all of Will’s things to the dry cleaners and they hung there, shrouded in plastic, beside the clothes that I used to wear—the flirty dresses and skirts, my skinny jeans, a whole floor full of sandals, sneakers and the occasional heels left over from school dances.

On the wall, covering an expanse of white-painted brick, was a large green felt where my nearly finished knitted American flag afghan hung. I’d finished all the white and red stripes but the blue blocked area where the stars should be had me stumped. I could either try to figure out how to do the intarsia stitch where I’d knit two different colors of yarn at the same time or I’d have to crochet the stars. Neither option enthused me. Tucked amongst all of Will’s Army paraphernalia, was yarn. Lots of it. In a basket near the kitchen, under the sofa, and more upstairs. It was as if I’d tried to fill my life with yarn instead of people. My condo was filled with unfinished knitting projects, balls of yarn, and the relics of my dead husband. So yeah, Mom was right. No wonder Gray had freaked out.

Setting down her cup of coffee Mom studied me for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts for an important argument. “I think that there is a lot of Will in your condo and that might make it uncomfortable for a new man.” She pointed to my left hand. “Along with your ring.”

I twisted the ring uncomfortably, hiding the shiny diamond in my palm again so only the plain band showed “I just…don’t know what to do with Will’s stuff.”

“And you can’t give it to Carolyn?”

“I tried, early on, but she started crying and said Will would’ve wanted me to have it. I just wanted her to stop crying so I didn’t push it.”

Mom pressed her lips together, suppressing her real feelings about Carolyn. “Just because you were once married to Will doesn’t mean you’re endlessly responsible for Carolyn’s mental wellbeing.”