A Nurse Mentioned the Woman Visiting My Dying Husband—Then She Came to My Door With a Letter About a Five-Year-Old Boy
Some of it was that.
Some of it was the discomfort of introducing another person to a place he could not confidently call his own.
“I don’t mind complicated,” I told him.
He smiled and asked whether I wanted to get something to eat instead.
We went.
The question waited.
Across the years, I learned things about his childhood in fragments.
A room he remembered.