After a long flight and a short drive, I arrived at the address printed on the envelope. The apartment building was ordinary, with neat hedges and peeling paint.
Jen’s father, David, opened the door. Time had added lines to his face. His eyes widened when he saw me.
“I got her letter,” I replied. “Where is she?”
His shoulders sagged. “At the hospital. She did not want to burden you, but she hoped you might find your way here.”
We drove there together. Walking down that hallway toward her room, I felt like I was carrying ten years of questions on my back.
When I stepped into her room, I saw her lying against a stack of pillows. She was thinner, paler, but unmistakably Jen. When she saw me, her eyes filled with tears.
“Roy?” she whispered.
I took her hand. “I am here,” I said. “I am not going anywhere.”
She covered her mouth and began to cry, shoulders shaking with all the emotions she had kept inside. I sat beside her, smoothing her hair back, and told her I had read her letter.
“I am so sorry,” she said again and again. “I thought I was doing the only thing I could.”
We talked for hours. About the wedding day. The lost years. The people we had become. Beneath the pain, something gentle stirred between us, familiar and comforting.
Two Months Of Love And Letting Go
The next two months were some of the hardest and sweetest days of my life.
We spent nearly every day together. Some days, we took slow walks in the hospital garden when she felt strong enough. Other days, we watched old movies and told stories about college, our favorite café, and the silly arguments we used to have.
We laughed. We cried. We forgave.
Her illness moved faster than anyone had hoped. There came a morning when the room was filled with soft light and quiet music, and I knew our time was nearly over. I held her hand and told her that if the only thing we ever got was those years in college and these last weeks together, I would still be grateful.
When her journey finally came to an end, it was gentle. She slipped away with my hand in hers and her father sitting on the other side of the bed.
Later, we held a simple, beautiful service beneath a maple tree she could see from her hospital window. The breeze moved through the leaves, and I said goodbye to the woman I had loved since that day in the hallway with the scattered books.
