The morning after we buried my father, my ex-husband’s new wife walked straight into his garden and told me to begin packing my belongings.

“Oh, Hannah, don’t be dramatic. That was years ago. Your father forgave him. They still played golf together every Sunday, didn’t they?”

The words struck harder than she could have known.

My father, Robert Whitaker, had been gone for only three weeks. Pancreatic cancer had taken him with terrifying speed. One season, he was walking through these gardens continue reading …