My husband died with another girl’s name in his mouth.
After 22 years of marriage, after three children and a house full of birthdays, bills, and Sunday dinners, Keith turned his face away from me in a hospital bed and whispered a name I’d never heard before.
“Mara,” he breathed.
I was holding his hand when he said it. The cancer had taken weight from his face and strength from his voice, but not the feeling behind that name.
I was holding his hand when he said it.
He didn’t sound confused. He sounded desperate.
“Keith?” I leaned closer. “Who is Mara?”