“When did he give you this?” I whispered.
“Three weeks ago.”
That was when Mark had still been asking to speak with him alone.
That was when I had kept asking what they were discussing.
That was when Mark had squeezed my hand and told me, “There’s something I need to arrange. Please trust me.”
The doctor glanced at the envelope and then back at me.
“He made me promise you wouldn’t receive it until after he was gone,” he said. “He was very specific about that.”
I stared at my name.
“Why?”
The doctor’s jaw tightened.
“I think he wanted to explain that himself.”
He placed the envelope in my hands.
It felt heavier than paper should feel.
I didn’t open it there.
I couldn’t.
Not yet.
I pressed it against my chest, thanked the doctor even though the words came out broken, and walked toward the exit with one hand around Mark’s last secret and the other supporting the weight of our unborn daughter.
