I could barely speak when it was my turn.
“Carl, I can’t promise you years,” I said. “But I can promise you that for every day we are given, you will not face it alone.”
He squeezed my hands.
“That is more than enough.”
When Father Michael pronounced us husband and wife, Carl closed his eyes.
A tear slipped down his cheek.
I had never seen anyone look so grateful.
We celebrated with grocery-store cake and sparkling apple cider.
Carl managed three bites.
That evening, after everyone left, we sat together on the couch.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
“Ask me after I see whether you leave wet towels on the floor.”
“I don’t have the energy.”
“Then our marriage is already stronger than most.”
He laughed.
For a few minutes, illness seemed to release him.
Ten Days as Husband and Wife
Our marriage lasted ten days.
They were not grand or dramatic.
They were filled with medication schedules, nurse visits, quiet meals, and increasingly long periods of sleep.
But there was tenderness in them.
I placed a wedding photograph beside Carl’s bed. Rachel had taken it on her phone. In the picture, I was wearing my white T-shirt and holding supermarket daisies while Carl smiled like the happiest man in the world.
On our third evening, he gave me a small wooden box.
Inside was a simple silver band.
“I didn’t want to give you something expensive,” he said. “I thought you might feel obligated to keep it.”
“You think too much.”
“I’ve been told.”
The ring had a tiny engraving inside.
For the days we were given.
I wore it immediately.
On our sixth day, Carl became restless.
“There is something I should tell you,” he whispered.
I moved closer.
“What?”
His eyes searched mine.
Then he shook his head.
“Not yet.”
“Carl—”
“I need you to remember me as the person you met in this house for a little longer.”
“You’re frightening me.”
“I’m sorry.”
He touched my hand.
“I have never lied about how much your kindness meant to me. Whatever you learn later, please believe that.”
I promised, though I didn’t understand.
On the ninth night, I slept in a chair beside his bed.
Shortly before sunrise, he woke and asked me to open the curtains.
The sky was turning pale pink.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“I’m not talking about the sky.”
I rolled my eyes, but I was crying.
“That was almost romantic.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
He grew serious.
