I thought about my daughter, who would be here in four weeks.
I put the photograph in the letter, folded them together, and set them on the counter by the door where I kept things I needed to deal with and couldn’t yet.
Then I went upstairs, lay down on top of the covers still in my coat, and stared at the ceiling until it was dark.
My phone lit up on the nightstand.
A text from Ruth: *Please let me explain.
Please.*
I turned it face-down.
But I didn’t sleep.
I called the dental practice on a Tuesday morning, three days after the hospital.
I had rehearsed what I would say.
I had written it down, crossed it out, written it again.
In the end I said none of it.
“I’m trying to reach Diane Calloway,” I told the receptionist.
“It’s a personal matter.
My name is Sarah.
She doesn’t know me, but — it’s important.”
A pause.
“Diane is on medical leave at the moment.
I’m not able to give out personal contact information.”
“I understand.
Could you pass along a message?
Just my name and number.
She can decide whether to call back.”
Another pause.
“I can try.”
I left my number and hung up.
She called back that same afternoon.
“This is Diane.” Her voice was cautious.
Quiet.
“You said it was important.”
“Yes.
I’m sorry to contact you this way.
My name is Sarah.
I was married to Mark.”
The silence that followed was long enough that I checked the phone to make sure the call was still connected.
“I see,” she finally said.
“He passed away four days ago.
He left me a letter.
He told me about Daniel.”
Another silence.
“I’m not calling to cause any trouble,” I said quickly.
“I’m not angry at you.
I want to be clear about that.
Whatever happened between you and Mark — that’s between you and him.
I’m calling because he asked me to make sure Daniel wasn’t alone, and I didn’t know how to do that without talking to you first.”
