It wasn’t fear.

It felt more like regret.

As if there was something he desperately wanted me to know.

Several times I asked him directly.

“Anthony, what is it?”

Each time he shook his head.

“Nothing.”

Then he would change the subject.

Two weeks after he was admitted, everything changed.

The doctors informed me that he needed emergency surgery.

I remember feeling numb.

The lead surgeon explained the risks, but all I could think about was getting through the next few hours.

Before they wheeled him away, I kissed his forehead.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” I told him.

He squeezed my hand.

Then he looked at me with that same strange expression I’d seen for days.

The one I couldn’t understand.

That was the last time I ever saw him alive.

About an hour later, my phone rang.

The moment I saw the hospital’s number, my heart sank.

I already knew.

The drive back felt endless.

When I arrived, a doctor met me in the hallway.

The surgery hadn’t gone as planned.

Anthony was gone.

I don’t remember much after that.

I remember crying.

I remember sitting beside his bed.

I remember begging him to wake up even though I knew he couldn’t hear me.

The grief was overwhelming.

Eventually, I stepped into the hallway because I couldn’t breathe inside that room anymore.

That’s when one of the nurses approached me.

She looked uncomfortable.

Like she had been debating whether or not to speak to me.

“Mrs. Parker?” she asked quietly.

I nodded.

She glanced around before holding out a small pink pillow.

I frowned.

The pillow looked old and slightly faded.

I’d never seen it before.

“Your husband kept this with him,” she said.

I stared at it.

“Why are you giving me this?”

The nurse hesitated.

Then she said something that instantly caught my attention.

“He always hid it before your visits.”