“The part where my husband apparently had three children,” I said, my voice starting to rise.
There was a pause—the kind that tells you someone is choosing their words carefully.
“Ma’am,” the director said, “your husband updated his obituary file himself. A few days before the aneurysm.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I understand,” he said gently. “But the change came directly from his account. His login, his password.”
I hung up, screamed, and then sat there staring at the wall for a long time.
Before Mark and I even got engaged, he sat me down and told me something he said I deserved to know.
“Before we go any further,” he said quietly, “you should know something about me. I can’t have children. A doctor confirmed it years ago. If you want kids, Carol, you should leave me now.”
I did want children. I had always imagined becoming a mother. But when I looked at Mark’s face in that moment, I realized something else: I wanted him more.
“Well,” I told him with a small smile, hiding the sting, “then I guess we’ll just have to spoil everyone else’s.”
I never once regretted that choice. Mark and I were happy for many years. I never fully stopped hoping for a miracle, but then something happened that ended my dream of becoming a mother.
I collapsed while gardening.
I woke up in the hospital. The doctor told me I had a serious heart condition and needed surgery.
“How are we going to pay for this?” I asked Mark when we were finally alone.
