When she went for coffee, I slipped inside.
“He’s resting,” she said. “He doesn’t need a scene.”
I could have pushed past her. I was his wife. But her hand trembled, nurses glanced over, and I thought of Russell hearing raised voices through the wall.
I sat in the hallway for three hours. When she went for coffee, I slipped inside. Russell was paler than the sheets.
He squeezed my hand.
“Don’t fight them,” he whispered. “Just trust me.”
I told him I didn’t care about the house.
For one second, she looked less cruel than exhausted.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why.”
I thought I would have time to ask what he meant. I did not.
The day before he died, he asked for the blue blanket from home. I brought it folded over my arm and found Marlene arranging flowers by the sink, throwing away lilies before they opened.
For one second, she looked less cruel than exhausted. Then she saw me and hardened again. Russell slept through most of that afternoon. I sat beside him, counting breaths instead of tips, wishing for any bargain that would buy one more month. When he woke, he only touched my wrist, as if reminding himself I was real.
At the funeral, his three children stood opposite me in matching black coats, like a wall. People offered condolences, then drifted toward them. I stood alone by the casket and cried because I had loved him, and because no one there believed me.
