"It's ugly," Liam said.
"It's perfect," I corrected.
"Those are the same thing," Mae said, and I laughed—actually laughed—for the first time since walking into the funeral home.
We built two more. Each one was worse than the last. Mae insisted the second one needed a scarf, so we raided the fronthall closet and returned with something knitted and orange that had probably belonged to Rhett when he was their age. The third snowman got a hockey stick Liam found in the garage—Rhett's old junior league stick, the blade cracked, and the tape peeling.
"Is Uncle Rhett sad?" Mae asked suddenly.
"Yeah."
"Because Grandpa died?"
"Yeah."
"Are you sad too?"
I thought about that. "I'm sad that he's sad," I said finally.
Mae nodded like that made sense. Then she pelted Liam with a snowball, and the moment broke.
By the time we trudged back inside, my fingers were numb, and dampness soaked my jeans to the knee. The kids were pink-cheeked and loud, arguing about which snowman was best while tracking snow through the mudroom.
Rhett's mother was in the kitchen, washing dishes that someone had already cleaned. She looked up when we came in, steam rising from the sink.
"You're all frozen," she said.
"We built snowmen." Mae was already pulling off her boots. "Three of them. They're ugly."
"They're perfect," Liam corrected, mimicking my cadence so precisely that I had to hide a smile.
Rhett's mother dried her hands on a dishtowel, moved to the window, and looked out at the backyard. Three lopsided snowmen stood in a crooked line, armed with mismatched sticks and dressed in whatever we'd found.
"You're good with them."
"They're easy," I said.
"No." She shook her head. "They're not, but you make it look easy."
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I stood there, dripping melted snow onto her kitchen floor, while she returned to washing dishes that didn't need washing.
Mae tugged my sleeve again. "Can we have hot chocolate?"
"Ask your grandma."
"Grandma, can we—"
"Yes." Rhett's mother was already reaching for mugs. "Go get your brother dried off first."
They thundered upstairs. Rhett's mother set three mugs on the counter and measured hot chocolate mix. The kettle clicked on and soon steam began to rise.
Outside, the three snowmen stood guard, watching the house.
By late afternoon, most of the guests had trickled away. Someone had packed the leftovers into Tupperware towers in the fridge. Someone else had folded the tablecloths into neat squares.
I was stacking chairs in the garage when I heard Sloane's voice through the wall.
"Mom, you can't stay here alone. The house is too big, and with Dad's medical bills—"
