I married a dying man because it was his final wish — after his funeral, his lawyer knocked on my door and said: “”He made me wait until today to tell you WHO HE REALLY WAS.

I had been volunteering at St. Agnes for less than a month. I still remembered our first conversation.

“You look as though you’re waiting for someone,” I had said.

Carl had turned from the window. His face was thin from serious i/llness, but his eyes were sharp.

“Everyone is waiting for someone,” he replied. “Most of us simply pretend otherwise.”

I had laughed awkwardly.

He had not.

After that, I began visiting him every Thursday.

He asked about my work, my apartment, my childhood, and the small dreams I had abandoned because adulthood had made them seem foolish. He remembered everything I told him. My favorite books. The name of my first teacher. The fact that I hated cinnamon but loved apple pie.

At the time, I thought he was simply lonely.

Now I understood that he had already known most of the answers.

I returned to the letter.