I thought honoring my husband’s final wish would be the hardest thing I would ever have to do.
Then I discovered he had prepared for something I never saw coming.
The secret he left behind forced me to question grief, loyalty, and just how much of his memory I was willing to protect.
“Sally, wait!”
I kept walking.
If I stopped, someone would say Mark’s name again. Someone would touch my arm and give me that careful look people used when they didn’t know what to say to a woman eight months pregnant whose husband had just died.
“Sally, please.”
“Sally, wait!”
I finally turned around.
Dr. Rivers was hurrying toward me, a plain envelope clutched in one hand.
“Mark gave me this three weeks ago,” he said.
I stared at the envelope.
“What is it?”
“There’s something he made me promise not to give you until now.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
Dr. Rivers looked exhausted.
“He said you’d understand when you needed it.”
It was infuriatingly vague.
And somehow, that made it completely Mark.
I took the envelope.
My name was written across the front in his messy handwriting.
“Sally.”
That was all.
Dr. Rivers hesitated.
“He also said you didn’t have to open it today.”
I almost laughed.
My name was already written across the front.
“That’s generous of him.”
He gave me a sad smile.
Then I walked away, carrying the last secret my husband had kept from me.
Two months earlier, secrets hadn’t been part of our marriage.
Baby names were.
“Absolutely not,” I told Mark.
“You rejected it too fast.”
“You suggested Clementine.”
We were sitting together on our porch, his hand resting gently against my six-month pregnant belly.
“It’s a strong name.”
“For an orange.”
Mark laughed.
Even then, the sound caught slightly in his chest.
“Fine. Cecelia.”
I looked at him.
“Cecelia?”
“My grandmother used to sing that song with the name in it.”
“You said she sang everything badly.”
