I planned to propose to Laura. I had the ring ready, hidden in a box of shoe polish in the shop safe. A vintage sapphire, because she said diamonds were boring.
Then the coughing started.
It wasn’t a cold. It was Stage 4 lung cancer, a genetic fluke in a woman who had never smoked a day in her life.
The decline was terrifyingly fast. In six months, the vibrant woman who danced in my kitchen was confined to a hospital bed in our living room.
The night she died, the house was quiet. Grace was sleeping at a neighbor’s. I held Laura’s hand, which felt like paper bones.
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