Six weeks.
That’s what the doctors gave him.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and flowers.
Marlene intercepted me before I reached his room.
“He’s resting,” she said.
“He doesn’t need a scene.”
I could have fought her.
I was his wife.
But nurses watched from nearby stations, and I didn’t want him hearing arguments through thin walls.
So I waited.
Three hours.
Then she left for coffee.
I slipped inside.
Russell looked smaller somehow.
Paler.
Fragile.
He squeezed my hand.
“Don’t fight them,” he whispered.
“Just trust me.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t care about the house.”
He smiled weakly.
“I know.”
“Then why say that?”
“Because…”
He paused.
“That’s exactly why.”
I thought we’d have more time.
We didn’t.
The day before he died, he asked for his blue blanket from home.
