“I knew that if I had told you the truth, you might still have said yes.”
My eyes filled with tears.
I whispered, “Then why didn’t you?”
Larry’s answer was written directly beneath it.
“Because then I would have had to listen while you decided whether loneliness was a good enough reason.”
Suddenly, two years of mornings with Larry looked different.
The next line read:
“I made it easier for you by turning loneliness into paperwork. I knew you would understand paperwork. You had the right to know the truth. I’m sorry.”
I stared at his words.
“You should have told me.”
A subway train rumbled beneath the pavement.
The letter continued.
“You were always trying to fix things for me. I liked that about you, even when you drove me crazy.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
During our three weeks of marriage, I had bought Larry warm socks, toiletries, a phone charger, and a new blanket.
Probably enough supplies to last six months.
Every hospice visit went exactly the same way.
I would enter carrying something.
Larry would say, “Sit down, Sarah.”
And I would answer, “In a minute.”
There was always another nurse to find.
Another form to complete.
Another problem to solve.
Then I reached the next sentence.
