Over the next few days, her condition deteriorated quickly.
But our 9 PM ritual didn’t change.
Only now, I no longer talked about the accident.
We remembered Mark.
How he always put three spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee.
How he was late for everything.
How he used to take half of Susan’s pie home and pretend it was for his friends.
One evening, Susan laughed as hard as her weakened body allowed.
Then she said,
“That’s how I want to remember him. Not on that road on his last night.”
Six days later, I walked into her room in the morning.
Usually, she was already awake by then.
That morning, everything was quiet.
I walked closer.
Her face was peaceful.
I sat down in our wooden chair and stayed there for a long time.
For the first time, I had nothing left to confess.
Tom and Lisa came to the funeral too.
