Evie never chased a confession. She only left the door open and waited to see if I had the courage to walk through. I never did.

 

One night, I found her sitting on the bottom stair with one hand pressed against the wall. She claimed she was fine, but I helped her up anyway. For one brief second, she leaned her weight into me before pulling away. In the kitchen, I tried to make tea, but I forgot to let the water boil first. She laughed softly, and for a few minutes, the house felt almost normal, like I was truly her husband and not just a man hiding under her roof.

Then my phone buzzed with a text from Jesse: “How’s the retirement plan?” Evie was smiling down at the mug I had made her. When she asked if everything was all right, I said it was just Jesse being stupid. Then I typed back, “All good. Once she’s gone, I’m set.” I hated myself for two seconds. Then I locked my phone and acted like two seconds of shame was enough.

Three mornings later, Evie dropped a spoon on the kitchen floor. I turned from the stove and saw her gripping the counter. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. “Hey. Look at me,” I said. Her knees buckled, and I caught her before she hit the floor. At the hospital, a doctor with tired eyes found me and said her heart had failed. All I could whisper was, “She was just eating jam.”

The funeral was three days later. I wore the coat she had bought me. Claire, Evie’s niece, noticed it immediately. “Of course you wore that,” she said. I told her it was cold. She shook her head. “No. You still know how to use her.” I said I was her husband, but Claire answered, “You were her project.” That hurt more than being called a gold digger because part of me knew it was true. Still, beneath the shame, one thought kept pushing forward: the will.