Theo wiped his eyes.
“Jack laughed and said, ‘Deal. But you have to wear one to mine.’ Then he insisted it had to be red because black made me look like a funeral director.”
That sounded exactly like my son.
“I kept telling him he would recover,” Theo continued. “I said there wouldn’t be a funeral. He told me he hoped I was right, but he still wanted me to promise.”
Jack had never shared that conversation with us. We had clung to his plans for the future, never wanting to imagine what might happen if treatment failed.
Theo reached into his pocket and unfolded a handwritten note.
“Jack wrote this down. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, Mrs. Harris. I just didn’t know how.”
Then he read:
“Theo, if you’re reading this because I didn’t make it, that’s pretty embarrassing for me.
