“What?” “It’s mine,” he choked out, squeezing my hand so tightly it ached. The dam broke, and the truth poured out of him in ragged, devastating sentences. In December, Arthur had gone to the doctor for what he thought was a stubborn chest cold. It wasn’t a cold.

It was aggressive, late-stage pancreatic cancer. The oncologist had given him six to eight months. He had spent the last four months carrying this absolute death sentence entirely on his own. He wanted to protect me from the grief for as long as he possibly could.

But more than that, he wanted to make sure everything was perfectly arranged so I wouldn’t have to lift a finger when the time came. “But the obituary,” I stammered, tears now streaming down my own face. “It was my name. My life.” He nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

“When I went to the funeral home to pre-pay for my arrangements, they asked if I wanted to purchase a double plot and a companion headstone for the future. I did. They gave me a pre-planning packet to fill out for both of us. I sat down to write my own obituary, Ruthie, and I just…

I couldn’t do it. It was too hard. So I started practicing by writing yours.” He looked down at our joined hands. “I wrote yours because I wanted to see what a beautiful, long life looked like on paper. And I realized… I wanted to be the one to write it.

I know I won’t be here when your time comes. I know I won’t be the one sitting in the funeral home making sure they get the details right. I wanted to write down how wonderful you are, just in case no one else gets it exactly right.

I had the photo made because I wanted everything in that folder to be a finished checklist for the kids. The insurance… that was just to make sure the mortgage is paid off so you never have to worry.” I collapsed against his chest, sobbing violently into his work jacket.

The smell of sawdust, old spice, and the man I loved surrounded me. I cried for the horrible, paranoid thoughts I had harbored in his desk chair. But mostly, I wept for the devastating reality of the man holding me. He wasn’t planning my end.

He was spending his final days trying to make sure I would be okay when he was gone.