I drove him to the ER, quieter than usual. I was still stewing over the missed church party, as though it were anything important, really. Looking back, it was a stupid event filled with stupid people. And I should have spent the evening with my darling husband, comforting him.

But I didn’t know. I didn’t.

And when the ER doctor told me that he had a blockage, I wasn’t all that shocked about that either. Edmund had gone through this so many times, and his doctors were great at what they did. I’d come to assume that his stubborn heart could survive anything…

When the doctors found me, I was sitting in the waiting room doing a crossword puzzle, my phone tucked between my cheek and shoulder, chatting with one of my girlfriends from church.

I talked for a few more minutes, making the young, sheepish-looking doctor wait for me to finish my conversation.

And when I hung up and tucked my crossword away, I asked him how many more hours I’d have to wait until I could take Edmund home. That’s when he told me—Edmund was gone.

I would never get to take my husband home again.

All that time, chatting and complaining, configuring my stupid letters into words, my husband lay in there dying. I didn’t even tell him goodbye before he went back to surgery. I didn’t kiss his lips or squeeze his hand. I didn’t tell my husband I loved him one last time.

So, sitting there in that room last night, waiting on Georgia, I felt myself reliving that day, over and over again, the rush of shock and regret. His words coming back to me as I moaned about going out to parties alone… Maybe you should, Elizabeth.

It had been three years. I knew that I should be over it. Hell, I’d even had younger friends point out that ‘at least he had a good, long life’, as though getting older made it any less hard to lose the love of your life. I hated them for trying to comfort me, for trying to blubber over their pleasantries and ‘sorry for your loss’s, for their explanations as to why my husband had to leave my side. He left for no good reason, and I failed to say goodbye or give him any comfort there at the end. I deserved to be sad and lonely.

I finished my coffee, throat scorched, and poured myself another cup. The catering staff had been kind enough to leave some breakfast foods, but I wasn’t much of an eater these days. Nothing tasted good and meals without Edmund were depressing.

“There you are. I was so worried…” Rosalee slipped inside the kitchen, sneaky like a snake. Her eyes were puffy, and her hair was uncombed. What does my son see in this girl? I wondered for the millionth time.