My husband became an organ donor as his final wish — after he d*ed, his doctor stopped me and said, “There’s something he made me promise to give you only after he was gone.”

He hadn’t been able to fix it himself.

So he had handed it to me.

I looked at his face in the photograph for a long time.

“I’m figuring it out,” I said quietly.

“It’s not easy.

But I’m figuring it out.”

The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead.

Josephine slept on.

Outside, the winter light held.

—

*Some people leave us carrying more than we knew.

And sometimes the weight they leave behind turns out to be something we needed to carry — not because it’s fair, but because love, even imperfect love, asks us to be bigger than our hurt.*