I Married a Stranger from a Hospital Waiting Room So He Wouldn’t Pass Away Alone – After Our One-Week Marriage, His Lawyer Handed Me His Backpack

***

Two days later, a chaplain married us in Thomas’s hospital room.

I wore a yellow sweater because Thomas said it made the room look less tired.

He wore the same cardigan with one missing button.

A nurse asked me if I was sure. She said Thomas was old enough to be my grandfather.

I just said yes.

Because my heart had answered before my mind could.

When the chaplain asked for rings, Thomas lifted his soda can, worked the pull tab loose with thin fingers, and slid it onto mine.

It was too big.

He laughed softly.

“We’ll pretend your finger is shy.”

For seven days, I was his wife.

I signed forms.

Adjusted blankets.

Smuggled in better tea.

Sat beside him when pain made his breathing shallow.

Once, near the end, he opened his eyes and said, “Don’t mistake stillness for peace.”

“What does that mean?”

His smile was faint.

Then he slept.

He never woke up.

***

And the green backpack sat open at my feet like a map with no roads.

I didn’t open the notebook that night.

I took the backpack home, set it on my kitchen table, and walked around it for almost two hours.

The apartment felt too quiet.

My mother’s mug still sat near the sink, though she had been gone nearly a year.

I had never moved it.

I told myself it was because I wasn’t ready.