I have had more than my life’s share of sorting and purging papers, starting with my mother’s, then my Dad’s, and finally my husband’s. All three of them were terrible packrats, hanging onto letters and photographs, legal documents dating back to the dawn of time, and every manner of brochure, pamphlet, guidebook, catalogue — if it was ephemeral, they stashed it lovingly.

Me, not so much.

After Edmund died, I had to empty his office and dispose appropriately of his client files and work notes. It was the depth of winter and the shank of the pandemic, before the first vaccines, so I was stuck in the house anyway. I eventually burned, shredded, or scrapped (depending on sensitivity) the entire contents of four full filing cabinets. I don’t miss any of it.