She was the first person I spoke to in the morning.
The person I called when something funny happened.
The person who knew exactly how I liked my coffee.
The person who could tell from the sound of my footsteps whether I was worried about something.
We had raised children together.
We had buried parents together.
We had celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas mornings, ordinary Tuesday nights, and thousands of moments that never seemed important while they were happening.
And now someone was telling me that all of that was coming to an end.
I reached for Carol’s hand.
She squeezed mine.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered.
I tried to smile.
“I don’t know how else to look at you.”
She gave me the faintest smile.
“You always were terrible at pretending.”
I laughed quietly, even though my eyes were already burning.
That evening, after the doctors left, I stayed beside her.
I didn’t go home.
I didn’t want to.
Home didn’t feel like home anymore.
Home was wherever Carol was.
So I sat in that uncomfortable hospital chair beside her bed and watched the machines blink through the night.
Sometimes she slept.
Sometimes she woke up and stared at the ceiling.
