and I married, when Gertrude showed up at our apartment with a slow cooker, two bags of groceries, and a handwritten recipe because she had heard I was working late shifts.
It deepened when she remembered my birthday after Christopher forgot and drove across town with a grocery-store cake sliding around on the passenger seat.
It became permanent after my miscarriage.
Christopher had spent most of that afternoon in the hospital hallway answering work emails and telling people he would call them back.
Gertrude sat beside me.
She did not
