I showed up at the hospital to surprise my husband during his shift. But the second one of his coworkers saw me, all the color left his face. Then his eyes filled with tears. “He hasn’t said a word to you, has he?” Ben and I had been married eleven years, and for every one of those years, I had shared him with the hospital. He was a remarkably gifted surgeon.

Pinecrest sat on top of a gently rolling green hill ringed by old maple trees whose leaves had already gone a brilliant autumn red.

I saw Brian’s gray sedan parked under a weeping willow near the back fence, and my stomach tightened into hard knots.

I got out into the cool air and followed the gravel path until I spotted his familiar shape among the headstones.

Brian was kneeling on the wet grass in front of a small white headstone, his shoulders hunched forward under his blue hospital scrubs.

His laminated ID badge still hung from his chest pocket, catching the weak afternoon sun like some cruel mark of disgrace.