We invited my dad's killer over to dinner once. She was a plump, timid woman who stood nervously on our doorstep holding a rhubarb pie. "Come in, it's so cold outside," Mom said, and scooped the pie into her arms. She beamed at it. "This looks just lovely. Thank you so much."

Dinner was great, but the woman simply couldn't talk. She ate with her head down, tears rolling out from behind her glasses and dripping onto the back of her white hands. She forked a small bite of potatoes into her mouth, and tried not to sob out loud. Mom reached across the table then, and took the woman's hands.

"Listen," Mom said, and the woman cringed.

"Listen," she said again. "I miss my husband. Of course I do. But look. Look — "

The woman peered around the room dutifully, then looked back at my mother, who smiled at her.

"I don't blame you. None of us do. I know how slippery the roads are in winter. But I want you to see."

She pointed at me, she pointed at my twin brothers who were in their footsie pajamas, rolling cars along the edge of the dinner table. They both had pie around their mouths.

"This is what people don't understand," my mother said. "This is what nobody knows. We miss him, but we are learning to survive without him. Do you see now? We're happy. We're happy."