As January drew to an end, Theo improved again, justifying my faith. I talked to him about our little son. I pledged to help protect his brother’s legacy, to assist in building a name for Vincent as soon as Theo was released from his confinement. I pretended that I was one of Vincent’s sunflowers, and I turned my face to the light in gratitude. I forced myself to see only hope. I skirted around all the dark corners of despair.

When I rode the train to Utrecht once again on the twenty-fifth of January, I had in my bag the photograph taken of me with our son in Paris, at the studio of photographer Raoul Saisset, on Rue Frochot. It would remind my beloved to fight harder so he could return to us sooner. If he remembered how much he loved us, maybe he would forget the accusations he’d shouted in his rants.

“This way, Mevrouw Van Gogh.” The orderly led me straight to the doctor instead of my husband, which usually meant Theo was having a bad day. I remained undeterred. For any illness, it was normal for the patient to take a few bad turns before he finally recovered.

The doctor stood up at my entrance, his expression even more somber and pitying than usual.

“I regret that I have bad news for you, Mevrouw Van Gogh.” He rounded his desk. “Your husband, most tragically, passed away this morning.”

…passed away this morning.

Shock punched me in the chest, my lungs flooding with fire, no air left in the room as I desperately gasped. I clawed at the collar of my dress.

…passed away…

…passed…

The room spun around me.

Help!

“I was just writing you a letter,” the man went on. “Please accept my condolences. We will, of course, assist with the transportation of the body for the funeral.”

My mind struggled to accept the words that flew at me like daggers. My heart shattered into shards too small to ever be fitted back together again. How could my fervent prayers be so utterly futile?

I collapsed into a chair.

“A glass of water?” The doctor hurried to the door and shouted for assistance.

A nurse arrived, then water shortly after.

“A sedative?” The doctor offered a pill.

“I have to ride the train home.” I shook my head. “I wish to see him.”

“The body has already been removed to a different building.”

The body. As if my husband had ceased being a person. Ceased being my Theo.

I was too broken to argue with the doctor. Or maybe too scared to open my mouth for fear that I would scream at the man.

“You’ve had a shock, madam. You must stay until you recover,” he said, less of a suggestion and more of an order.