Brenda and another night-shift nurse stood by as witnesses.

A mobile notary public—a stern Alaskan woman who had driven through the snow at 6:00 a.m.—oversaw the process.

Sarah signed the documents slowly. Her hand trembled violently, each stroke of the pen a monumental, agonizing labor of love and defiance.

When the final seal was stamped, Sarah let her head fall back against the pillows. She closed her eyes and let out a long, shuddering sigh.

“I feel like I can finally breathe,” she whispered.

We spent her final two days immersed in memory instead of fear. We didn’t mention Greg’s name again. We talked about her childhood in Chicago. We talked about her favorite students.

We looked through the glittery pink photo album I’d brought, laughing at the crooked construction-paper hearts.