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
“His health failed after he retired. Medical bills took his savings, and when he lost his apartment, he was too proud to call any of us.”
“What did he do?”
“Marriage licenses, mostly.”
Margaret removed her glasses.
“He never told you?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“That sounds like Larry.”
“What does that mean?”
She hesitated. “Come with me.”
She led me down a hallway into a small civil ceremony room.
I recognized the wooden arch against the wall.
“This is where we got married.”
“Come with me.”
“I know.”
“You were here?”
“No. But Larry was, the afternoon before.”
I turned toward her.
“Why?”
Margaret crossed to a cabinet and unlocked the bottom drawer.
“I asked him the same thing.”
“You were here?”
She pulled out a thick binder and placed it on a table.
“He sat right there for almost an hour.”
She pointed to a chair beside the wooden arch.
“What did he want?” I asked.
“Nothing.” Margaret smiled faintly. “He said he was nervous.”
“What did he want?”
I almost laughed.
“A man who worked around weddings for 28 years?
