I almost laughed.
Of course he had said something like that.
Even dying, Mark had somehow managed to be mysterious.
Dr. Rivers held the envelope out.
My name was written across the front in Mark’s uneven handwriting.
Sally.
Nothing more.
No explanation.
No warning.
Just my name.
“You don’t have to open it today,” Dr. Rivers said gently.
I stared at him.
“That was generous of him.”
A sad smile crossed his face.
I took the envelope and left the hospital carrying what felt like the final secret my husband had ever kept from me.
Only two months earlier, secrets had been the last thing on my mind.
Back then, Mark and I had been arguing about baby names.
“Absolutely not,” I told him.
“You didn’t even consider it.”
“I considered it long enough to know we are not naming our daughter Clementine.”
We were sitting on the porch, my feet swollen, my six-month belly round beneath Mark’s hand.
