“What are you arranging?”
Mark rested against the pillows.
“Something I need to take care of.”
“Without me?”
“Yes.”
I crossed my arms.
“But it concerns me?”
His mouth curved faintly.
“It’s for you.”
“That makes it worse.”
“I know.”
“Mark.”
“Please trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
“Then let me do this one thing on my own.”
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to remind him that we had spent years deciding everything together, from mortgages to paint colors to whether the dog was technically allowed to sleep on the bed.
But there was something in his expression that stopped me.
So I nodded.
Dr. Rivers went inside.
I remained in the hallway long after the door closed.
I hated not knowing.
But I loved him enough to allow him one final piece of privacy.
Mark died on a rainy Tuesday.
I was holding his hand.
There was no great speech.
