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.”

The first envelope said Bus Stop.

That was it.

No date.

No explanation.

Only two words in Edward’s careful handwriting across cream-colored paper, hidden inside the worn green backpack his attorney had set on my lap less than an hour after my husband passed away.

My husband.

I had been Edward’s wife for seven days.

The word still felt unfamiliar in my mind, like something I had borrowed from another person’s life.