I finally stepped out of the car the day the questions grew louder than my fear. Up close, he looked less like a threat and more like a man carrying something heavy enough to bend his spine. His voice shook when he said her name, like he was touching glass he expected to break. I demanded answers; he asked for forgiveness for arriving too late to say thank you.
He told me about the night in the hospital, the impossible bill, the doctor who said there was one anonymous benefactor who refused recognition. My wife. My Sarah. The woman I thought I knew completely had been someone’s miracle in secret. When his daughter Kaylee wrapped her arms around me at the grave, calling Sarah her guardian angel, my grief rearranged itself. It stopped being only about what I’d lost, and began to include what she’d quietly given.
