I straightened my apron. I’m not the Martha Stewart type, but I had to do something while he was away. He would have teased me mercilessly if he saw this granny smock. I wiped flour off the tip of my nose and started mixing. This was his second deployment, and the 15^th box of cookies I had sent. The spoon hit the bowl with a dull thud, thud, thud, like helicopter propellers. Christmas with gingerbread men instead of the man I married felt…sick. I was sick, of all of this.

I spent the night under the tree eating cookie dough.