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
A woman in a white jumpsuit fixed her lipstick while her fiancé held her bouquet. A toddler crawled beneath two chairs while his father tried to catch him.
I was standing in the courthouse.
Three weeks earlier, Larry and I had sat in that same row.
He’d rubbed his palms against his pants over and over.
“You’re shaking,” I’d told him.
“I’m dying. I’m allowed to shake.”
“You’re shaking.”
I’d accepted that explanation.
Now I wondered what else I’d accepted because it was easier than asking another question.
At the records counter, a clerk pointed me toward an older woman in red glasses.
“Margaret?”
She looked up.
“Yes?”
I’d accepted that explanation.
“I’m Sarah. Larry’s wife.”
Her hands stopped over the keyboard.
“Larry?”
I nodded.
Her chair rolled backward.
“Oh, honey.”
She came around the counter and hugged me.
I stood there stiffly.
“I’m Sarah. Larry’s wife.”
When she released me, her eyes were wet.
“When did he pass away?”
“A week ago.”
She looked away.
“I knew he was sick. I didn’t realize it was that close.”
“You knew Larry?”
“I knew he was sick.”
Margaret frowned. “Of course.”
“How?”
She glanced around the courthouse.
“He worked here.”
I stared at her.
“Here?”
“For 28 years.”
“Then how did he end up outside?” I asked.
“He worked here.”
