“Please stop.”
Then she pushed past me and ran upstairs.
I remained in the laundry room shaking with anger and fear.
I wanted to march into David’s bedroom and demand the truth.
But each time I imagined confronting him, I saw how thin he had become.
I heard the doctor’s estimate.
Weeks.
Perhaps days.
I loved him.
I resented him.
And beneath both feelings was a terror that the truth might make me grieve a man who had never truly existed.
Three days later, David was taken to the hospital.
He never came home.
The funeral passed in a blur of black clothing, flowers, casseroles, and voices telling me how fortunate I had been to share my life with such a good man.
Grace stood beside our children throughout the service.
People asked who she was.
“She’s family,” I answered.
Even as I said it, I did not know whether it was true.
The night after we buried David, I lay awake in our bed.
His side was cold.
For fifteen years, I had fallen asleep listening to his breathing.
Now the silence felt enormous.
I stared at the ceiling and counted the questions he had left behind.
Shortly before midnight, the bedroom door creaked open.
Grace stood in the hallway holding a wooden box against her chest.
“I need to speak to you.”
“Grace, it’s late.”
“He said the day after.”
I sat up.
