Larry’s letter explained that his illness had been real, but the reason he asked me to marry him wasn’t the entire truth. He admitted that he had already made arrangements for his funeral. He wasn’t actually afraid of being buried without someone claiming his body. He had used that explanation because he knew I would understand practical problems better than emotional ones. I lowered the letter, feeling confused and strangely betrayed. Had our marriage meant something different to him? I remembered the morning he approached me with that unbelievable cardboard sign outside my subway station.

It had read, “MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.” I had known Larry for nearly two years by then. Every morning, I bought two coffees, one for myself and another for him. We talked about ordinary things, laughed about ridiculous situations, and slowly became friends. When he told me he was dying, I never imagined refusing his request. Two days later, we married at the courthouse. Now, after his death, his letter was telling me that the story behind our marriage was far more complicated than I had ever understood.