Losing one’s husband, like so many of life’s milestones, had turned out to be an interesting test of friendship. Debbie had lost friends, like the one who imperiously told her not to “wallow in her grief” when she didn’t want to go to the theater, and she’d deepened her friendship with others, like Sulin, who was not a widow, yet seemed to intuitively understand the way Debbie felt six months after losing Dennis: so raw and sensitive the very air was harsh against her skin. Sulin hadn’t said, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, Debbie.” She’d said, “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
