I married a terminally ill stranger so he wouldn’t have to face his final days alone. For seven days, I was his wife. Then Edward’s lawyer put his old green backpack in my hands and said, “He wants you to know the truth.” I thought I might discover secrets, treasures, maybe relatives. Instead, I found places.
The first envelope says Bus Stop.
That’s it.
No date.
No explanation.
Just two words in Edward’s careful handwriting on cream-colored paper, hidden inside an old green backpack that his lawyer had placed on my lap less than an hour after my wife passed away.
My wife.
I’ve been Edward’s wife for seven days.
That word seemed unfamiliar to my mind, like something I had borrowed from someone else’s life.
The lawyer stood next to an empty hospital bed, his hand resting lightly on the backpack strap.
“Grace,” he said gently, “Edward is not who you think he is.”
I looked at the bed.
The pillow still held the shape of his head.
Her peppermint tea remained on the tray next to her.
The soda can lid he used as my wedding ring wrapped around my finger, weightless like a joke and heavy like a promise.
“What truth?” I asked.
The lawyer’s lips trembled slightly.
“He said you’d understand better if you opened it yourself.”
Then he went out.
This is how Edward handles things.
Quiet.
Not directly.
He doesn’t force you to open the door if he can leave it unlocked and let you decide.
With trembling fingers, I opened the backpack’s zipper.
No money.
No jewelry.
There is no legal document that has enriched me or bound me to some strange responsibility.
Envelopes only.
Dozens of them.
Each one has a marked place.
Bus stop.
Grocery Store.
Airport.
Laundry.
Park Bench.
Waiting Room.
Hospital Chapel.
At the very bottom is an old notebook with bent edges, but I haven’t opened it yet.
I’m more worried about the envelopes.
I first lifted the Bus Stop.
Inside was an old train ticket, soft from years of handling.
On the back, Edward wrote: “He’s finally gone.”
I stared at the words until they blurred.
