“You knew?”
“I knew he had prepared something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know everything inside.”
“Daniel asked me only to safeguard envelope and give it to you after he
died.”
My throat tightened.
“Why wouldn’t he give it to me himself?”
Dr. Reed looked tired.
“He said if he gave it to you while he was alive, you would argue with
him.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
“That sounds like him.”
“He also said you might try to change whatever he had arranged.”
My eyes filled.
“Did he tell you what he arranged?”
“Only enough for me to understand it was not a medical decision I was
making for him.”
That distinction mattered.
Dr. Reed was his physician.
Not attorney.
Not financial adviser.
Not secret executor.
Daniel had apparently used him because hospital was one place he knew I
would not search his belongings.
I took envelope.
It was heavier than paper alone.
“Claire.”
I looked up.
“Daniel loved you very much.”
I started crying.
“I know.”
Then I went home without him.
Our house felt wrong.
His shoes were beside back door.
A mug sat in sink.
His jacket hung over chair.
The nursery door was closed.
We had barely decorated it.
Daniel and I had been afraid.
After years of trying for baby, pregnancy had felt too precious to
trust.
We bought crib at twenty-two weeks.
Left it in box for another month.
We did not paint walls.
Did not order personalized blankets.
