I didn’t say a word to Mom. How do you tell a 79-year-old woman that the child she dotes on is paying month by month to bury the other one? I finished her Medicare forms with my hands not quite steady, kissed her soft cheek, and drove myself home.

Then I sat out in my own driveway for the better part of an hour, just staring at the garage door.

I called him that night. I told myself I only wanted to hear his voice and prove I’d lost my mind over nothing. “Hey, you all set for Saturday?” he said, and he sounded so happy. So plain and normal. I told him my new boots were rubbing blisters and maybe we ought to push the hike to another weekend. And there was this pause. Just a little pause on the line. Then he said, “No, it’s gotta be this Saturday.” His voice changed just a hair. “Weather’s perfect. I already told everybody we’re going.” I keep wondering why it matters so much who he told.

I didn’t go on Saturday. I texted that I had a migraine and couldn’t get out of bed. That was a lie. The truth is I spent the whole day at my own kitchen table with that policy photocopied and folded up in my purse, watching my phone light up. He called four times. The last voicemail, he wasn’t chipper anymore. Real low and flat, he said, “You can’t keep dodging me.” Then, “We need to do this.” We need to do this.

I still haven’t shown a soul. The policy’s right here in my purse. Kevin still shows up every Sunday with his cheap flowers, and Mom still lights right up when she sees him, and I sit at that table and pass the ketchup and smile like my face works.

I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Proof, I guess. Or for the whole thing to somehow turn out to be nothing at all.

But every Sunday, right before he leaves, he leans in real casual and asks me when I want to reschedule that hike.