A Nurse Mentioned the Woman Visiting My Dying Husband—Then She Came to My Door With a Letter About a Five-Year-Old Boy
The visits were real.
The papers were real.
The cardigan was real.
Everything I feared between those facts was still something I had supplied.
For three days, I supplied it relentlessly.
I replayed his drives.
The late-night screen.
The way he said I had enough to carry.