Jack died while I was six months pregnant, leaving me with two children to think about and more questions than I expected. Then a stranger appeared with something he’d hidden from me.
I was thirty-five and six months pregnant with our second daughter. Our four-year-old, Lucy, still believed Daddy was going to get better because that was what grown-ups did.
For eight months, my life had been lists.
Jack watched me sorting pills at the kitchen table. “You know you don’t have to control every second of the day, right?”
“I’m six months pregnant, Lucy is four, and my husband has cancer. Which part should I stop controlling?”
“You’re the least trustworthy one.”
“We’ve been together since high school.”
“Exactly. I have evidence.”
He smiled tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”
“Good. Cancer should be terrified of me.”
He laughed, then coughed until he had to grip the table.
That was us.
I organized. Jack joked.
Neither of us said the obvious thing.
During his last few months, Jack started disappearing.
“Where were you?”
“For three hours?”
“I needed air.”
“You can barely walk through Target.”
“What’s in your jacket?”
“Nothing.”
“Those are papers.”
“Claire.”
“And you were on your laptop at two this morning.”
He kissed my forehead. “Please don’t interrogate the dying man.”
“I know.”
“Whatever you’re doing, you can tell me.”
“I wish I could.”
He looked down at the papers. “You already have enough to carry.”
“That’s not your decision.”
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