I married a terminally ill stranger so he would not face his final days by himself. For seven days, I was his wife. Then Edward’s lawyer placed his old green backpack in my hands and said, “He wanted you to know the truth.”

The lawyer stood beside the empty hospital bed, his hand resting lightly on the backpack strap.

“Grace,” he said gently, “Edward wasn’t who you thought he was.”

I looked toward the bed.

The pillow still carried the shape of his head.

His peppermint tea remained untouched on the tray beside him.

The soda can pull tab he had used as my wedding ring circled my finger, weightless like a joke and heavy like a promise.

“What truth?” I asked.

The attorney’s lips shook faintly.

“He said you would understand better if you opened it alone.”

Then he walked out.