The envelope was different.
He had hidden this from me deliberately.
That hurt.
I carried it into the nursery and sat in the chair we had bought because Mark insisted I would need somewhere comfortable for late-night feedings.
The room was almost finished.
A few tiny clothes were folded in a drawer.
A blanket rested over the side of the crib.
There were still tools in the corner from the last thing Mark had managed to assemble before he became too weak.
I put the envelope on my stomach.
Our daughter kicked beneath it.
And suddenly I knew I had to open it.
My fingers shook as I slid them beneath the flap.
Inside was a letter.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing expensive.
Just several pages in Mark’s handwriting.
That somehow made it harder.
The first line stopped me.
He had written that if I was reading his words, then the day we had both been afraid of had finally come.
