“I knew that if I had told you the truth, you might still have said yes.”

My eyes filled with tears.

I whispered, “Then why didn’t you?”

Larry’s answer was written directly beneath it.

“Because then I would have had to listen while you decided whether loneliness was a good enough reason.”

Suddenly, two years of mornings with Larry looked different.

The next line read:

“I made it easier for you by turning loneliness into paperwork. I knew you would understand paperwork. You had the right to know the truth. I’m sorry.”

I stared at his words.

“You should have told me.”

A subway train rumbled beneath the pavement.

The letter continued.

“You were always trying to fix things for me. I liked that about you, even when you drove me crazy.”

Despite myself, I smiled.

During our three weeks of marriage, I had bought Larry warm socks, toiletries, a phone charger, and a new blanket.

Probably enough supplies to last six months.

Every hospice visit went exactly the same way.

I would enter carrying something.

Larry would say, “Sit down, Sarah.”

And I would answer, “In a minute.”

There was always another nurse to find.

Another form to complete.

Another problem to solve.

Then I reached the next sentence.

“I didn’t need better socks nearly as much as you thought I did.”

I laughed through my tears.

“You’re welcome, Larry.”

Then I read the line beneath it.

“I needed you to sit down.”

I looked at the empty place beside me.

Our final Tuesday together came rushing back.

I had brought his usual black coffee.

“You staying?” he asked.

“Five minutes.”

“Big spender.”

I ended up staying twelve.

Maybe those twelve minutes had been worth more to him than anything I had brought through the hospice doors.

The final paragraph began:

“Don’t turn me into another person you failed to save.”

My fingers stopped moving.

Because since Larry’s funeral, that was exactly what I had been doing.