“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.
No dramatic final moment.
Just the sound of rain against the hospital window and his fingers growing still inside mine.
Afterward, people began asking questions.
The donation team explained what might be medically possible and what might not.
I signed documents.
I answered what I could.
