PART 1
My name is Tessa Cole.
I was thirty-four when I became a widow.
Marcus was thirty-seven.
And when people hear that he knew he was dying, nb they assume there must have been months of emotional conversations, bucket lists, peaceful acceptance, and beautifully organized goodbyes.
There weren’t.
There was anger.
There were insurance forms.
There were nights when Marcus threw pillows across the bedroom because he hated that I had to help him put on his socks.
There were mornings when I cried in the shower so he wouldn’t hear me.
There were arguments about money.
Appointments.
Medication schedules.
And one ridiculous three-week disagreement about what to name our daughter.
I wanted June.
Marcus wanted Naomi.
“Naomi Cole sounds like someone who runs a Fortune 500 company,” he argued one Saturday morning.
“June Cole sounds like someone who owns six cats.”
I threw a dish towel at him.
“You’re insulting our unborn daughter.”
“I’m protecting her.”
“From what?”
