“I didn’t need better socks nearly as much as you thought I did.”

I laughed through my tears.

“You’re welcome, Larry.”

Then I read the line beneath it.

“I needed you to sit down.”

I looked at the empty place beside me.

Our final Tuesday together came rushing back.

I had brought his usual black coffee.

“You staying?” he asked.

“Five minutes.”

“Big spender.”

I ended up staying twelve.

Maybe those twelve minutes had been worth more to him than anything I had brought through the hospice doors.

The final paragraph began:

“Don’t turn me into another person you failed to save.”

My fingers stopped moving.

Because since Larry’s funeral, that was exactly what I had been doing.

If I had noticed sooner.

If I had found a better doctor.

If I had found permanent housing.

If I had done more.

Then I read the next line.

“You were not my failed rescue. You were my wife for three weeks. I liked it.”

A laugh escaped me.

“Idiot.”

I folded the letter around our marriage certificate.

For decades, Larry’s name had appeared beside one word.

Witness.

For three weeks, it appeared beside another.

Spouse.

A shadow fell across the pavement.

“Excuse me. Is anyone sitting here?”

A man carrying a worn backpack pointed toward the empty space beside me.

Instinctively, my hand moved toward my purse.

Then I stopped.

“No.”