I could see a sweater folded on top.
A woman’s sweater, soft gray wool, neatly done.
It wasn’t mine.
I pulled it out and said, “Excuse me, I think there’s been a mix-up. This isn’t Jack’s, and it isn’t mine.”
The nurse frowned gently and checked the name on the bag.
“No, that came from your husband’s room. It belonged to the woman who kept visiting him. Wasn’t she a relative of yours?”
I nearly fainted right there at the desk.
Because Jack had grown up an orphan.
He had no family left in the world — that was the great sorrow of his life, the thing he carried like a stone in his pocket.
And my family would certainly have told me if one of them had been sitting at his bedside.
“How often did she come?” I asked.
The nurse thought about it, and I watched her decide to be honest.
