“I promise.”
That was the last conversation we had about the future.
Seven days after our wedding, Eleanor died peacefully in her sleep.
The nurse called me early that morning.
I drove to the center without remembering most of the journey.
When I entered her room, everything looked painfully ordinary. Her book was still on the bedside table. Her glasses lay beside it. The purple cardigan I had teased her about hung over the back of a chair.
I sat beside her bed and held her hand.
For a long time, I couldn’t speak.
Then I whispered, “You never even got to complain about the cake again.”
It was a foolish thing to say.
But it was the only thing I could manage.
Her funeral took place two days later.
Only a small group attended: Rebecca, two nurses, a few people from the center, and me.
There were no children to stand beside her grave. No husband who had spent decades growing old with her. No crowded church filled with stories of family holidays and grandchildren.
