A woman.
A little boy.
Maybe four or five years old.
On the back of the photo, in Mark’s handwriting: *Take care of them.
Please.*
The floor felt like it was moving.
“Who are they?” I whispered.
The doctor looked down at his shoes.
“He asked me not to say anything beyond giving you the envelope.”
“Who are they?” My voice came out louder than I meant it to.
He swallowed hard.
“There’s a letter.
He wanted you to read it first.
Before anyone explains anything.”
I looked back at the photo.
The little boy had Mark’s eyes.
The same shape.
The same color.
My hand moved to my stomach without thinking.
Our daughter kicked once, hard.
I unfolded the letter.
The first line stopped me completely.
*By the time you read this, you’ll have already given someone a part of me.
I need you to know there’s something else I left behind — something I should have told you long before now.*
I read the first line three times before my eyes would move to the next one.
The hallway was empty except for the doctor, who had stepped back to give me space.
A cart rolled past somewhere around the corner.
A phone rang at the nurses’ station and was answered before the second ring.
Everything around me was continuing normally, and I was standing completely still.
I made myself read.
—
*By the time you read this, you’ll have already given someone a part of me.
I need you to know there’s something else I left behind — something I should have told you long before now.*
*Her name is Diane.
We were together for two years before I met you.
We ended things the right way — or I thought we did.
