I Married a Homeless Man Who Had One Month Left to Live – But the Letter I Received After His Funeral Made the Blood Drain from My Face
Larry had written beneath it: “You were not my failed rescue. You were my wife for three weeks. I liked it.”
If I’d noticed sooner.
A laugh broke out of me.
“Idiot.”
I folded the letter around the copy of our marriage certificate.
For decades, Larry’s name had appeared beside one word.
Witness.
For three weeks, it had appeared beside another.
Spouse.
A shadow crossed the sidewalk.
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”
For decades, Larry’s name had appeared beside one word.
A man with a worn backpack nodded toward the space beside me.
My hand automatically moved toward my purse.
Then stopped.
“No.”
He sat.
I nearly asked whether he needed coffee.
He sat.
Instead, I remembered Larry’s final instruction.
“Next time you start fixing somebody’s life, ask them what they actually want first.”
For a moment, we simply watched people hurry toward the station.
Then I held out my hand.
“I’m Sarah.”
The man looked surprised.
“Jeremy.”
“Nice to meet you.”
I remembered Larry’s final instruction.
I took a sip from the second coffee.
Black.
I made a face.
Jeremy glanced over.
“Bad?”
“No.”
I looked at Larry’s empty spot.
“Just not mine.”
I walked back to the kiosk.
