That morning, he opened his eyes only once.
“Leah,” he whispered.
“I’m here.”
His lips moved again.
I leaned closer.
“Go home,” he murmured.
“I will, sweetheart.
When you’re feeling better.”
He made the tiniest movement of his head.
“No,” he whispered.
“Your home.”
I didn’t understand.
I thought he was confused by the medication.
Then he squeezed my hand.
“Don’t let them make you small.”
Those were the last complete words my husband ever spoke to me.
At the time, I believed they were about grief.
Later, I would understand that Thomas knew exactly what was waiting for me.
We had been married for thirty-eight years.
I met him when I was twenty-three, working at a public library outside Atlanta.
He was a young civil engineer who came in looking for historical maps of northern Georgia and western North Carolina.
He returned the next afternoon.
