I married a terminally ill stranger so he would not face his final days by himself. For seven days, I was his wife. Then Edward’s lawyer placed his old green backpack in my hands and said, “He wanted you to know the truth.”

That was how Edward handled things.

Quietly.

Indirectly.

Never forcing a door open when he could leave it unlatched and let you decide.

With trembling fingers, I unzipped the backpack.

There was no cash.

No jewelry.

No legal documents that made me wealthy or bound me to some strange responsibility.

Only envelopes.

Dozens of them.