It was a large cardboard box, taped shut and heavier than I expected. My vision was still blurry, so I held it close and tore the tape away. Inside were dozens of envelopes, all addressed to me, and stacked on top sat a thick folder stamped with my hospital’s name. My hands shook. Then I read the first line of the top envelope and gasped.

It was dated eight months after my accident, in Grant’s handwriting: “Mara, I am sorry I cannot say this out loud.” Beneath the envelopes lay a second folder, and when I opened it, I saw a stack of medical bills marked past due and a final notice from the bank. Downstairs, the front door suddenly opened. Grant’s voice called out, “Mara? I forgot my wallet.” His footsteps started up the stairs.