She squeezed my hand so tightly I could feel every one of her thin, papery fingers. Beside the bed, that old bag sat where it always had, right beneath her palm.
"I want to do it."
***
A week later, Gloria and I were married in a small ceremony in her hospital room. A chaplain officiated. Sarah stood as a witness, quietly, without protesting. Gloria wore a soft pink cardigan and the same stubborn smile she had the day I met her.
I knew most people would never understand my decision.
But if I could give a kind, lonely elderly woman one final moment of happiness, it felt like the least I could do.
Gloria and I were married.
***
Three days after that, and two years after I'd met her, Gloria slipped away in her sleep, my hand still resting beneath hers.
I stood at her funeral in a borrowed black coat, empty and unsure of what came next. That's when Mr. Charleston walked toward me across the wet grass, carrying the worn old bag she had never let anyone touch.
After introducing himself, he placed Gloria's bag in my arms.
It felt heavier than it should have.
Gloria slipped away.
"She chose you for a reason," Mr. Charleston said again, more quietly this time. He reached into a folder. "There's a letter inside the bag, Daniel. She wanted you to read it before anything else happens. Before you make any decisions. She anticipated..."
Right then, a man in a gray suit stepped in front of us as if he owned the place. He was about 50, with thinning hair and a tight jaw. I'd never seen him before, but I knew who he was the second he opened his mouth.
"There's a letter."
"You must be Daniel," he said. "I'm Marcus. Gloria's nephew."
I nodded slowly. "She mentioned you."
"I'm sure she did." Marcus looked me up and down. "A young orderly marries my 82-year-old aunt three days before she dies. You can imagine how that looks."
"It wasn't like that."
"It never is."
