And that’s true. No matter what happens, when you left, you were my husband. I became a widow. Not a divorcee, not a single woman. A widow, and like you said, and as I’m sure you’d expect, not a conventional widow. Like you said in your letter…a Ms. Scarlett, the widow who wears black and dances with a blockade runner at the charity auction, the kind of woman who digs in the dirt to plant seeds so she can rise again, the consummate survivor.