That was why he wrote the letter.
That was why he trusted his doctor with one last promise and made him wait until Mark himself could no longer change his mind, soften the words, or protect me from hearing them.
I once thought the envelope contained Mark’s final goodbye.
It didn’t.
It contained instructions for how to keep saying hello.
Now the letter stays in the nursery, folded carefully where I can reach it.
Someday our daughter will be old enough to read every word herself.
Someday she will ask questions I cannot answer without crying.
Someday I will tell her about the porch, about the nights her father waited for her to kick, about the way his hand covered my stomach, and about the choice he made when he realized he might never get to hold her.
And when I tell her what Mark said about giving someone else more time with the people they loved, I will also tell her what he gave us.
