It began with candles in restaurants. A few years back, when Caroline's face was still round and I was a widow and she was an only child. (By 14 she looked like a tiny woman, stretched and severe around the cheeks and mouth.) Bill and I were engaged then and we often went out to eat, at what Caroline referred to as "fancy places," places that put candles on the table for romantic effect. She'd seen candles before of course; it was only after Bill came into the picture that they became "fancy." Caroline liked to play with the wax when we brought her along. She dipped her fingertips into the hot liquid and pulled them out with quick-drying molds on top, like little army helmets. She would make a mess of the tablecloth. Stare into the flames. The candles would go out. She couldn't leave them alone. Each time, Caroline begged the wait staff to come back and touch the wick with a long lighter like a wand and start it burning again. Bill may have cringed on the inside, but he pretended it was cute at the table.