We were simply running out of time.
I heard every word.
But somehow, my mind refused to accept them.
I was sixty-three years old, and for thirty-six of those years, Carol had been beside me.
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.”
