The big stuff often comes with some advance warning. One can prepare for an anniversary or milestone, and the big hard death-related tasks have a sort of numbing quality that can protect one's heart at least long enough to get home and collapse in privacy.
It's the smaller things that can punch you in the gut. They sneak up and scream right in your ear that you are all alone, and that you will be forever.
Mike was always my Quality Control Officer when I baked cookies. "More chips!" or "Why so small?" or "I think I need a few more for a really informed opinion." Today I had to do random testing myself. And while I apparently have an infinite capacity for eating cookies, I sorely miss his unfailingly positive feedback on the one and only food-related contribution I ever made to our table.
I made them big and with extra chips just for you, my love.