I MARRIED MY CHILDHOOD SWEETHEART IN HIS HOSPITAL ROOM AFTER DOCTORS SAID HE HAD MONTHS TO LIVE—MINUTES AFTER OUR VOWS, A NURSE WHISPERED, “CLAIRE… LOOK UNDER HIS MATTRESS.”
The machines beside Ethan’s bed hummed steadily as I stood at the foot of it holding the cheapest wedding veil I had ever seen.
It had come from a party store.
I was wearing jeans.
Ethan was wearing hospital pajamas and a crooked black bow tie.
And somehow, after twenty years of loving him, I was finally about to become his wife.
Just not in the way either of us had imagined.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
I looked down at myself.
“I’m wearing jeans.”
“Best-looking bride in Willowcrest Medical Center.”
I laughed.
Mostly because if I didn’t, I was going to cry.
I had known Ethan since we were eight years old.
At sixteen, our families were already joking about us getting married.
At twenty-eight, we finally mailed the invitations.
Then two months before the wedding, Ethan collapsed at work.
Everything changed.
“MONTHS, NOT YEARS.”
The doctor had sat across from us in a quiet consultation room at Willowcrest Medical Center.
His expression told me the answer before he spoke.
“Ethan has an aggressive form of cancer.”
I squeezed Ethan’s hand.
“How bad?”
“Advanced.”
The doctor paused.
“I’m sorry. We are looking at months, not years.”
I remember staring at the wall behind him.
Months.
Not years.
Ethan squeezed my fingers.
Too hard.
That night, we canceled everything.
