Life list.
Rowan had a life list, too.
Maybe it’s just a coincidence.
It’s not unusual for someone who’s been given a second chance at life to make a list of things they want to do. I’ve seen it countless times with some of my patients.
This is no different.
With that reassurance, I keep reading.
This will also be myyear of yes.
Yes to travel.
Yes to new experiences.
Yes to joy, even when it feels terrifying.
I bought a van and plan to drive across the country. I want to see mountains and oceans and tiny roadside attractions that make no sense.
I plan to make every moment count.
To find joy.
To live.
Because someone doesn’t get to.
I hope that brings you even a sliver of comfort.
Your loved one’s heart beats strong. I feel it every day. I will take care of it. I will honor it. I will build a life worthy of it.
I hope to thank you in person one day.
If not, know you will always have my endless gratitude.
Thank you for the gift of more time.
I blink, staring at the paper for several long moments. Life list. Year of yes. The van.
It’s a coincidence. It has to be.
But the handwriting. I’ve seen this handwriting before.
I shove back from the desk so hard the chair slams into the wall. My legs don’t work as fast as I want them to as I bolt upstairs into my bedroom, pulling out the resignation letter Rowan gave me earlier in the week.
With trembling hands, I lay them side by side on the bed.
The same rounded a.
The same narrow e.
The same curling t.
There’s no mistaking it.
These were written by the same person.
