I was surprised at how our marriage transformed into something beautiful. Russell was a man of many insignificant but important little things. He always remembered that I needed peppermint tea during moments of stress. He did not completely close the bedroom curtains since he knew that darkness made me nervous. There was an early morning when I did not want to eat anything and put my plate aside, he said, “Elena, you don’t need to earn your coffee here.”
I choked on a laugh since my entire life had been a transaction, working myself to the bone for every scrap of security. But somewhere between the tea, the open curtains, and the way he’d reach for my hand at traffic lights, the acting stopped. I married him because I was exhausted, but I stayed because I genuinely loved him.
Then came November. The doctors gave him six weeks.
The day before he passed, Marlene blocked me from entering his room. “He’s resting,” she said “Don’t make a scene.”
I was his wife; I had every right to push past her. But her hands were shaking, and the nurses were staring. I didn’t want Russell’s last memories to be the sound of shouting in the hallway. So, I sat on a plastic chair for three hours. When she finally left to get coffee, I slipped inside.
He looked so small under the white sheets, but he managed to squeeze my wrist. “Don’t fight them. Just trust me.”
“I don’t care about the money or the house, Russell.”
“I know,” he whispered. “That’s why.”
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