If I had noticed sooner.
If I had found a better doctor.
If I had found permanent housing.
If I had done more.
Then I read the next line.
“You were not my failed rescue. You were my wife for three weeks. I liked it.”
A laugh escaped me.
“Idiot.”
I folded the letter around our marriage certificate.
For decades, Larry’s name had appeared beside one word.
Witness.
For three weeks, it appeared beside another.
Spouse.
A shadow fell across the pavement.
“Excuse me. Is anyone sitting here?”
A man carrying a worn backpack pointed toward the empty space beside me.
Instinctively, my hand moved toward my purse.
Then I stopped.
“No.”
He sat down.
My first impulse was to ask whether he wanted coffee.
Then I remembered one of Larry’s final instructions.
“Next time you start trying to fix somebody’s life, ask what they actually want first.”
So I said nothing.
For a while, the two of us simply watched commuters hurry toward the station.
Then I extended my hand.
“I’m Sarah.”
The man looked surprised before shaking it.
“Jeremy.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I picked up the second cup and took a sip.
Black.
I immediately made a face.
Jeremy glanced over.
“Bad?”
“No.”
I looked toward the empty space where Larry used to sit.
“Just not mine.”
I stood and walked back toward the kiosk.
The woman behind the counter saw me approaching.
“Another black?”
I shook my head.
“Actually, could you put some cream in this one?”
When I returned to the bench, Larry’s letter and our marriage certificate rested beside me.
For once, I wasn’t rushing to work.
I wasn’t making phone calls.
I wasn’t filling out forms.
I wasn’t trying to rescue anyone.
I simply sat there.
And for the first time, the coffee in my hands tasted like it belonged to me.
