I could have told everyone exactly what Mark had said on the porch.
I could have described the conversations, the paperwork, his insistence.
Instead, I said, “We’re not doing this here.”
“Because you can’t?”
“Because this day is supposed to be about Mark.”
I walked away.
I thought refusing to fight was an act of kindness.
By the end of the evening, I realized my silence had created room for suspicion.
Mark’s aunt approached me near the door.
“Sally, can I ask you something?”
I already knew I wouldn’t like the question.
“What?”
“Was Mark taking medication near the end that might have affected his judgment?”
I stared at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Violet just wondered whether maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“He knew exactly what he wanted.”
“I’m not accusing you.”
“Yes, you are.”
She lowered her eyes.
“You’re asking whether I pushed my dying husband into a decision he didn’t understand.”
