Something in his voice made me stop.
“Mark gave me this three weeks ago,” he said.
“He was very specific.
You weren’t supposed to see it while he was alive.”
The doctor held out a small envelope.
My name was written on it in Mark’s handwriting.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it.
“He made me promise,” the doctor said quietly.
“He was very specific about the timing.”
I tore it open right there in the hallway.
Inside was a single folded letter — and underneath it, a photograph I had never seen before.
A woman.
A little boy.
Maybe four or five years old.
On the back of the photo, in Mark’s handwriting: *Take care of them.
Please.*
The floor felt like it was moving.
“Who are they?” I whispered.
The doctor looked down at his shoes.
“He asked me not to say anything beyond giving you the envelope.”
“Who are they?” My voice came out louder than I meant it to.
He swallowed hard.
“There’s a letter.
He wanted you to read it first.
Before anyone explains anything.”
I looked back at the photo.
The little boy had Mark’s eyes.
The same shape.
The same color.
My hand moved to my stomach without thinking.
Our daughter kicked once, hard.
I unfolded the letter.
The first line stopped me completely.
*By the time you read this, you’ll have already given someone a part of me.
I need you to know there’s something else I left behind — something I should have told you long before now.*
