And he worried that person would be me.
That’s why he had written:
“Protect my choice, not my reputation.”
I read the sentence again.
Then again.
He had asked me not to argue with Violet.
He knew her anger would come from grief.
He didn’t want me to fight her.
But he also didn’t want me to surrender his final decision simply to make her pain easier.
“If Mom needs to be angry with me,” he had written, “let her.”
I cried when I read that.
Because even while dying, Mark had been trying to protect both of us.
He was giving his mother permission to grieve however she needed to.
And he was giving me permission to honor his wishes without feeling guilty.
Then I turned the page.
The final section was addressed to our unborn daughter.
Cecelia.
I couldn’t breathe for a moment.
I placed my hand over my stomach.
Then I began reading.
Mark described the afternoon when we chose her name.
He remembered how she had kicked beneath my hand while we were talking.
He wrote about how much he already loved her, even though he might never get the chance to hold her.
And then he explained why he had chosen organ donation.
He said that if he couldn’t watch her grow up, he wanted something good to come from the life he had been given.
Perhaps another parent would have more time with a child.
Perhaps another husband would have more mornings with his wife.
Perhaps another daughter would have more years with her father.
Perhaps another family would get one more birthday, one more Christmas, one more ordinary morning together.
That was what he wanted his death to give them.
More time.
I pressed the letter against my chest.
