But Michael asked her to wait.
He was afraid the final months of his life would be spent watching our family fall apart.
And Susan agreed.
Once again, they had made the decision for me.
I stood up and opened the hotel room door.
Susan understood.
She stood up too.
When she reached the doorway, she turned around.
“Yesterday I said it was our last photo as friends because I knew that after today, you would never call me your friend again.”
I looked at her.
Thirty-seven years of memories passed through my mind.
Two little girls in a schoolyard.
Our first school dance.
My wedding.
The births of my children.
My mother’s funeral.
Michael’s final night in the hospital.
And Susan was there in every one of those memories.
But now every memory seemed to have two different versions.
The one I had known.
