the room became quiet again, the nurse asked whether there was anyone she could call.
I looked down at Christopher’s name on my screen.
Thirty missed attempts from me.
Nothing from him.
“No,” I said. “There isn’t.”
I signed the first forms before midnight.
There were questions about burial, cremation, personal belongings, and who had legal authority to make decisions.
Each question felt like a door Christopher should have walked through.
He never did.
I gave the staff the information I knew from years of filling out Gertrude’s paperwork.
Her
