I thought Oggie would be proud of me when, eventually, I told him of our engagement (we're not engaged; but I thought there would be a time when we were, and I'd tell Oggie and he'd be proud). I thought he would kiss me on the cheek on my wedding day, and then make rude comments about the arrangements. I thought he would listen to me complain through my pregnancies, and tolerate, ungraciously, far more biological detail than he wanted to know. I thought he'd babysit sometimes, and afterwards, to wind me up, ask whether it was all right for the baby to eat duct tape. I thought that, when they grew older, he would teach my children unsuitable and dangerous things. I thought he'd indulge my training them to tease him. I thought he would be there for supper often; even, if we were lucky and he weren't too busy, mostly. I thought we'd all grow old together. I thought that, finally, he would predecease me; but I'd be a grand old woman by then, in my seventies, all the brilliant boys having gone before me. I expected that, and thought I'd expect it even more by the time it came, but it was too sad to keep in mind for long.