Before my surgery, my husband texted: “I want a divorce. I don’t need a sick wife.” The patient in the next bed comforted me. “If I survive this, we should get married,” I said. He nodded. A nurse gasped: “Any idea who you just asked?” – usnews

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, pulling me into the circle of his arm.

“About the bus ride,” I said, looking at the white blossoms. “About how I thought the tumor was the end of the story. I didn’t realize it was just the demolition crew clearing the site for a better building.”

“We worked hard for this,” Mark said, kissing my temple.

“We did,” I agreed.

In the distance, the bells of Arbor Hill rang out for the afternoon. I wasn’t waiting for the right time anymore. I was living in it.

The End.