Tom washed and folded my clothes. He is a very organized packer. Everything is arranged perfectly.

He has included items I was not expecting.

The first is the notebook of photos taken of Mary during that summer before John was born. I page through them, reminded again of your grandmother’s beauty, how she moved, how she laughed. I set the notebook down beside me on the floor. I’m not sure I want to keep it—I’m not sure if I want to see her through his eyes. But we’ll see. I sure wish I could have shown these to you.

Under the notebook, tucked in with my socks, is the Russian nesting doll I saw all those long days ago when we first went to the cabin. I pick it up and spin the top half of the first doll, and on a whim I take off the top and pull on the next doll. I place the open halves on a small side table, pop open the next doll, and pull out the smaller one. I arrange all the halves on the table and keep going until there is what seems to be the last doll that can be opened.

I pull it apart, fully expecting to find that one solid doll in the middle of everything, the root of the entire exercise, but that is not what I find. I sit there taking it in, almost unable to breathe.

I reach in and take out the twist-tie wedding ring I gave Mary when we got engaged.

In the middle of the night, I wake up in your room, stiff from sleeping on the small hideaway bed. I sit up, feeling completely different. The air seems easier to breathe, the light clearer. Hearing Tom’s confession has cleared me of some deep anguish.

But that doesn’t seem to be it. There’s something else.

I don’t feel any pain.

For the first time in months, there is no dull throbbing at my core.

Your machines begin to go crazy, beeping and buzzing. Alarms sound. A nurse comes in quickly, followed by your doctor, followed by more nurses. More people than I thought were even on shift that late at night in this small hospital. I see the earnest nature of their attempts, the speed with which they move around the room. No one even looks at me. No one says anything.

I stand up, not sure what to do, not sure where to stand. I wonder if this is the end, and I reach up to touch the knot on my head.

It’s gone. It’s completely gone. I dig around the roots of my hair, check behind my ear, squeeze my skull. There is no pressure, no spreading ache.

No knot.

I bring my hand back down and stare it. My fingertips are coated in a fine white powder. The powder you took from your pocket when we were in the car, the powder that I thought had blown away.