The end came on a cold, gray morning when the snow outside the care home had turned to slush and the world felt heavy and damp. I felt it before it happened. The pull toward Mark’s room grew stronger, the house’s grip on me loosening just enough to let me stay close. His breathing had changed in the night. It was shallower now, more labored, like each inhale took more effort than the last. The monitors beside his bed beeped with a steady, warning rhythm that the nurses had grown used to ignoring. I hovered near the ceiling, watching the man who had once been my husband. Mark lay completely still under the thin blankets, his face pale and sunken. The stroke had taken so much from him already. The right side of his body barely moved. His speech had become a series of slurred fragments. But his eyes, when they opened, still searched for me in the corners of the room. The nurse came in for her morning check. She took his vitals, frowned at the numbers, and called for the doctor. I watc
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