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The captain called my name halfway through dessert, and every fork in the dining room seemed to stop at once. I rose from Table Seven, the place Frank and I had chosen for our 40th anniversary dinner, though he had been gone for three months. The captain approached carrying a tablet, his expression gentle but unsteady. “Your husband left instructions for this evening,” he said. Then he pointed beneath the tablecloth and told me to look underneath. My hands found a large box wrapped in red paper, with my name written across the top in Frank’s handwriting. For a moment, I could not breathe.
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