He hesitated.
"The paperwork… There's something you need to sign."
"What do you mean?"
I kept my face calm.
"What paperwork?"
"The trust release. Joint accounts. Just practical things." He looked down at the blanket. "If I leave you with a legal mess, I'll never forgive myself."
I stared at him.
All I could think about was how this fitted into his terminal diagnosis act.
And whether this had anything to do with the papers I HADN'T seen in that folder.
"Just practical things."
"You don't have to think about that today," I said.
"I do." His voice became strangely urgent. "I need everything signed tomorrow."
"So soon?"
"I don't know how much longer I'll be thinking clearly."
I searched his face.
For the first time in twenty years, I wasn't looking at the boy who carried my backpack.
"I need everything signed tomorrow."
I was looking at a man who needed my signature more than he needed my love.
"I'll bring everything tomorrow," I whispered.
His shoulders relaxed.
"Thank you."
***
That evening the hospital administrator called me.
"We found something."
A man who needed my signature
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"We ran a financial disclosure after opening the investigation."
"And?"
"Your husband is carrying debts well into six figures."
I closed my eyes.
My stomach tightened.
"Gambling?"
"We don't know. Loans. Credit. Judgments. But one thing is clear."
"What?"
"He wasn't trying to marry you because he was dying."
