Love is not a power of attorney.
Marriage is not consent to everything.
And illness does not belong to anyone who wants to use it as an excuse for the harm they cause.
I still have Rachel’s old card.
To the woman who answered.
It sits inside my desk.
Beside it is one photograph.
Not the wound photo.
I never wanted that.
It’s a picture Laura took two years after treatment.
Rachel and I are standing on my porch.
I’m holding two coffees.
Rachel is laughing.
The front door behind us is open.
For years, doors frightened me.
Daniel blocking one.
Rachel reopening one.
Leaving one.
Locking another.
Now I barely think about them.
That may be the best ending I could have asked for.
Not spending the rest of my life standing in a doorway remembering who once tried to keep me inside.
Just opening it when I want.
