“You never told me.”
“You never asked.”
“That’s a ridiculous answer.”
“It’s still true.”
I stood up.
He caught my wrist.
“Tess.”
I turned around.
“If there’s anything medically usable when the time comes, I want it donated.”
I shook my head immediately.
“I can’t talk about this.”
“You don’t have to decide.”
“I’m your wife.”
“Exactly. Which is why I don’t want doctors asking you to guess what I would have wanted while you’re grieving.”
He pointed to the computer.
“I’m telling you now.”
I began crying.
Marcus stood, slowly because his legs had already become unreliable.
Then he wrapped both arms around me.
I pressed my face against his chest.
“I need you here,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to teach her how to ride a bike.”
“I know.”
“You’re supposed to scare her first boyfriend.”
“I was planning to be extremely unreasonable.”
I laughed through my tears.
Then I hit his chest lightly.
“This isn’t funny.”
“No.”
His voice cracked.
“It isn’t.”
That was when I realized he was crying too.
PART 2
Marcus’s mother had never liked the donation plan.
Denise Cole had raised Marcus alone after his father disappeared when Marcus was four.
They were incredibly close.
For most of our marriage, I loved that about them.
Denise called every Sunday.
She remembered our anniversary.
When I became pregnant after three years of fertility treatments, she bought baby clothes before we even knew the gender.
She painted an old wooden rocking chair that had belonged to Marcus’s grandmother.
She was not the stereotypical cruel mother-in-law.
That almost made what happened later worse.
Because I knew the woman underneath the anger.
About three weeks before Marcus died, Denise came to our house while I was folding baby clothes.
Marcus was sleeping upstairs.
