People said, “At least you had time to prepare,” and I never knew how to answer that. How do you prepare to lose the person who slept beside you for four decades? There is no preparation. There are doctor appointments. There is morphine. There are casseroles from church. There are little acts of denial that look like bravery from the outside. There is waking at two in the morning because the breathing beside you has changed, and knowing before your mind can bear to say it that something sacred is leaving.
After he died, I made him a promise.
Not in front of anyone. Not at the funeral. Just me, alone, on my side of the bed, my hand resting in the hollow his body had left in the mattress.
I told him I would build the lake house.
We had talked about it for years. Not grandly. Not foolishly. Just in the quiet, practical way two people protect a dream long enough for it to become part of ordinary life. Whenever we drove near Lake Norman, Henry would slow the truck and look through the trees at the water.
“One day, Maggie,” he’d say. “Nothing fancy. Big porch. Good chairs. A dock for the grandkids.”
He used to sketch it on napkins in restaurants.