As I was leaving the hospital, his doctor hurried after me, his face pale.
He was holding something behind his back so I couldn’t see it.
“Wait!
Please, wait!”
Something in his voice made me stop.
“Mark gave me this three weeks ago,” he said.
“He was very specific.
You weren’t supposed to see it while he was alive.”
The doctor held out a small envelope.
My name was written on it in Mark’s handwriting.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it.
“He made me promise,” the doctor said quietly.
“He was very specific about the timing.”
I tore it open right there in the hallway.
Inside was a single folded letter — and underneath it, a photograph I had never seen before.
A woman.
A little boy.
Maybe four or five years old.
On the back of the photo, in Mark’s handwriting: *Take care of them.
