‘Don’t open that box alone,’ the electrician said while rewiring my late wife’s workshop. I was sitting in the parking lot at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian in Sudbury when my phone buzzed inside my coat pocket. It was!
I almost let the call go to voicemail, but something made me answer. It was Terry Kowalski, the electrician rewiring Diane’s workshop. “You should come alone,” he said, his tone careful, almost reverent. My stomach dropped. The workshop had been Diane’s sanctuary—her tools, aprons, and projects untouched after her death. Terry had cut into the…
