Somewhere between Tuesday morning traffic, red lights, and shared laughter, I stopped pretending.
I had married him because I was tired of drowning.
But I stayed because I loved him.
Then November arrived.
And everything changed.
Six weeks.
That’s what the doctors gave him.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and flowers.
Marlene intercepted me before I reached his room.
“He’s resting,” she said.
“He doesn’t need a scene.”
I could have fought her.
I was his wife.
But nurses watched from nearby stations, and I didn’t want him hearing arguments through thin walls.
So I waited.
Three hours.
Then she left for coffee.
I slipped inside.
Russell looked smaller somehow.
Paler.
Fragile.
He squeezed my hand.
“Don’t fight them,” he whispered.
“Just trust me.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t care about the house.”
He smiled weakly.
“I know.”
“Then why say that?”
“Because…”
He paused.
“That’s exactly why.”
I thought we’d have more time.
We didn’t.
The day before he died, he asked for his blue blanket from home.
I brought it folded over my arm.
Marlene was arranging flowers near the sink, throwing away unopened lilies.
For one brief second, she looked less cruel.
Just tired.
Then she saw me.
The hardness returned immediately.
Russell slept most of the afternoon.
When he woke up, he touched my wrist gently.
As if reminding himself I was real.
Then he closed his eyes again.
At his funeral, his children stood together.
Three black coats.
Three people united against me.
People offered condolences.
Then drifted toward them.
I stood alone beside the casket.
I cried because I had loved him.
And because nobody believed that I had.
After the final guest left, his attorney approached me.
