“Of course, Ma’am. Which part?”

“The part where my husband apparently had three children,” I said, my voice starting to rise.

There was a pause—the kind that tells you someone is choosing their words carefully.

“Ma’am,” the director said, “your husband updated his obituary file himself. A few days before the aneurysm.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I understand,” he said gently. “But the change came directly from his account. His login, his password.”

I hung up, screamed, and then sat there staring at the wall for a long time.

Before Mark and I even got engaged, he sat me down and told me something he said I deserved to know.

“Before we go any further,” he said quietly, “you should know something about me. I can’t have children. A doctor confirmed it years ago. If you want kids, Carol, you should leave me now.”

I did want children. I had always imagined becoming a mother. But when I looked at Mark’s face in that moment, I realized something else: I wanted him more.

“Well,” I told him with a small smile, hiding the sting, “then I guess we’ll just have to spoil everyone else’s.”

I never once regretted that choice. Mark and I were happy for many years. I never fully stopped hoping for a miracle, but then something happened that ended my dream of becoming a mother.

I collapsed while gardening.

I woke up in the hospital. The doctor told me I had a serious heart condition and needed surgery.

“How are we going to pay for this?” I asked Mark when we were finally alone.

He squeezed my hand. “Leave it to me.”

Two days later, I underwent the life-saving surgery.

When I later asked Mark how he had managed to pay for it, his answer was vague. “It came from a settlement for an old business thing. Don’t worry about it. The most important thing is that you’re going to be fine.”

I never questioned him.