Six days after Larry’s funeral, a thick white envelope appeared in my mailbox. His familiar, unsteady handwriting covered the front, and the postmark showed he had mailed it one day before he died. I expected a tender goodbye from the man who had thanked me three times for every cup of black coffee. Instead, the first sentence was an apology. Less than a month earlier, Larry had sat outside my subway station holding a cardboard sign that read, “MARRY ME. I HAVE ONE MONTH LEFT TO LIVE.” I had known him for two years, and when he explained that liver failure would soon take his life, I believed he feared being buried without anyone to claim him. Two days later, wearing a clean blue shirt while I wore my navy work dress, he became my husband.