I married a stranger from a hospital waiting room so he wouldn’t die alone — after our one-week marriage, his lawyer handed me his backpack, saying, “He wanted you to know the truth.”
My name is Sarah, and I was twenty-nine, still finding my way through the grief of losing my mother. Volunteering at the hospital — sitting with patients who had no family in their final days — was the only thing that gave the pain some purpose.
That’s how Thomas came into my life. Seventy-two, frail, dying from heart failure. Always exhausted, but he still smiled whenever I came.
One afternoon he reached for my hand. “Marry me, Sarah. I don’t want the state handling my final hours. My last wish is to leave this world as a husband, not a nameless file.”
Two days later, a chaplain married us. I wore a yellow sweater. We had no ring, so Thomas slipped a soda can pull-tab onto my finger.
For seven days I never left his side. I held his hand until his heart stopped.
Then an elderly man came in with a green backpack. “I’m your husband’s attorney. He left this for you.” It was heavy.
