“I love you, you know.”

He held my gaze. “I love you, too. More than ever.”

After he left, I went into the kitchen to pour a glass of water for my father, who was wiping his brow and talking to Sanjay as the kids ran circles around them. As I regarded my family through the window, I was reminded of the night Jenny’s voice first came to me, and what a comfort that had been.

It occurred to me that it had been several weeks since I had heard her. Somehow I knew I wouldn’t again.

If Jenny were still alive—or even if we were still just having chats in my head—I would have told her how happy I was to be building a new bond with my father. I would have shared that I was finally making space for my own dreams. I would have confessed I was doing what had once seemed impossible and falling in love with my husband again.

And in spite of her pain, she would have been happy for me.

Close female friendships are built one secret at a time. What Jenny had concealed did not undo all we had shared; I would miss her for the rest of my life. But as I watched my husband gesturing animatedly to my father, I was profoundly grateful that I still had one person with whom I could share these thoughts, and the many ideas and experiences—and, yes, mistakes—that would follow.

Above my family, the sun was beaming in the cloudless blue sky. I wondered if Jenny was up there somewhere, or in the air around me, or at least a part of the universe somehow. Wherever she was, I only hoped she knew I had received her parting gift—the ability to look beyond what was missing and be thankful for all that remained.