“You were there?”
Wade’s chin lifted.
“When he died.”
“Yes.”
“Was anyone else?”
“No.”
That hurt so badly I had to grip the hall table.
Thirty-five years.
Thirty-five years of sleeping beside a man whose feet were always cold. Thirty-five years of arguing about thermostats and money and whether the children needed rescuing from consequences. Thirty-five years of funerals attended together, weddings attended together, birthdays, storms, broken appliances, quiet Sundays, angry Wednesdays, fevers, pregnancies, layoffs, retirement papers.
And when Randall died, Wade held the room.
Not me.
“What did he say?”
Wade’s face crumpled.
I hated myself for seeing his grief and hating him more because of it.
“What did he say when he died?”
“Not today.”
I went very still.
“Excuse me?”
“There are things in the box he wanted you to see first.”
“You do not get to ration my husband’s death.”
“I’m trying to honor what he asked.”
