We were married at the courthouse two days later. I spent his final weeks arranging hospice care, bringing blankets and socks, fixing paperwork, and trying to make everything easier. Larry kept telling me, “Sit down, Sarah.” I was always too busy helping. On his final evening, though, I stayed beside him for twelve quiet minutes, simply holding his hand. He died that night. At his funeral, I realized how little I truly knew about his life.

His letter revealed that the story about being buried as a “John Doe” had been partly a lie. Larry had already had arrangements. He knew exactly how to give me a problem I would rush to solve. But then he sent me back to the courthouse. There, an employee named Margaret told me the truth: Larry had worked there for twenty-eight years. He had spent his life witnessing weddings for strangers who had nobody to stand beside them. His name appeared hundreds of times beside one word: Witness. Mine was the first beside another: Spouse.

The last page of his letter said, “I didn’t need better socks as much as you thought I did. I needed you to sit down.” Later, at his old subway stop, I bought two coffees and sat in his usual place. A stranger asked if the seat beside me was taken. My first instinct was to offer money, food, or a solution. Then I remembered Larry. “No,” I said. “Go ahead.” I sat beside him instead. For once, I didn’t fix anything. I simply listened. And when I returned to the coffee kiosk, I ordered mine with cream.