“We spent them.”
“Anything you could sell?”
“I already sold my jewelry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“Was it for his treatment?”
“Yes.”
“And you borrowed against the house?”
“When someone offers one more treatment, you don’t ask whether you can afford hope.”
She went quiet.
Then hope dies, and the bills stay.
A week after the funeral, I returned to the hospital for Jack’s belongings.
A nurse named Rachel handed me a carefully packed bag.
“I’m so sorry, Claire.”
“Thank you.”
His watch.
Charger.
Toiletries.
A paperback.
And a gray women’s cardigan.
I pulled it out.
“Excuse me, I think you mixed something up. This definitely isn’t Jack’s, and it isn’t mine either.”
Rachel looked at the cardigan.
“This came from your husband’s room. I thought it belonged to the woman who visited him.”
“What woman?”
“I assumed she was family.”
