Inside the crooked wooden box was a letter addressed to me, Mark’s old phone, and a stack of handwritten cards marked “For Nora. Or June. (June.)” I laughed through my tears because even while dying, Mark was still arguing about our daughter’s name. His letter explained everything. He had spent nineteen nights recording messages for her birthdays, her first day of school, her first heartbreak, and the moments when she would need her father most. His doctor had helped him when his illness made speaking and writing difficult.

Mark had kept the recordings secret because he wanted our final weeks together to feel normal. He didn’t want every night to become another goodbye. He wanted me to remember our laughter, our arguments over baby names, and the way he talked to my stomach. One recording was meant for me alone, but he instructed me not to listen until I was in the delivery room.