She handed me my coffee with cream.
And Larry’s black coffee.
I carried both cups outside and sat in his usual spot.
In two years, I had never stayed there long enough to finish an entire cup.
I placed Larry’s coffee beside me.
Then I unfolded the next page of his letter.
At the top, he had written:
“I didn’t need a wife to make my life matter, Sarah.”
Underneath that was another sentence.
“But I wanted to know, just once, what it felt like to have somebody choose that word with me.”
I stopped reading.
Steam rose from the black coffee beside me into the cold air.
Then I continued.
“I knew that if I had told you the truth, you might still have said yes.”
My eyes filled with tears.
I whispered, “Then why didn’t you?”
Larry’s answer was written directly beneath it.
“Because then I would have had to listen while you decided whether loneliness was a good enough reason.”
Suddenly, two years of mornings with Larry looked different.
The next line read:
“I made it easier for you by turning loneliness into paperwork. I knew you would understand paperwork. You had the right to know the truth. I’m sorry.”
I stared at his words.
“You should have told me.”
A subway train rumbled beneath the pavement.
The letter continued.
“You were always trying to fix things for me. I liked that about you, even when you drove me crazy.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
During our three weeks of marriage, I had bought Larry warm socks, toiletries, a phone charger, and a new blanket.
Probably enough supplies to last six months.
Every hospice visit went exactly the same way
