On her deathbed, our son asked Kirsten Swanson if she had any regrets.
Through her tears, she said the greatest regret of her life was not boarding that boat.
A sharp pain tore through my chest.
Back then, the three of us had planned a trip together.
Kirsten fainted out of nowhere. I rushed her to the hospital in a panic, and by the time I got there, Peter Gilbert had already boarded the boat.
That night, the boat sank. He was gone.
When the news reached her, her face went whiter than paper.
It was only through my constant care that she gradually pulled herself out of that darkness.
Then we got married, had children, and spent fifty years together in what I believed was love.
I thought it was the happiest life a man could ask for.
It wasn't until today that I understood.
I was nothing but a replacement.
When Kirsten's heart monitor flatlined into a single, unbroken line,
my own heart seized. I collapsed right beside her.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of that trip.
I looked at Kirsten, unconscious in the passenger seat. This time, I didn't rush her to the hospital first.
I picked up my phone.
"Peter, something happened to Kirsten."
"Don't get on that boat!"
——
The light above the emergency room flicked on.
I looked down at my hands.
They were young. No age spots. No gnarled blue veins winding beneath the skin.
Fifty years of marriage, wiped away like a dream.
When we were kids, our three families were neighbors, all living in the same old tenement building.
Peter's family was on the third floor, mine on the fourth, Kirsten's on the fifth.
The three of us were close in age.
We walked to school together, walked home together.
We played hopscotch on the concrete lot out front.
On summer nights when the power went out, the adults would drag their lawn chairs outside to cool off, and the three of us would squeeze onto one together, counting stars.
Kirsten always insisted on lying in the middle. Peter on one side, me on the other.
Even back then, I noticed that whenever she rolled over in her sleep, she always turned toward Peter.
When I was old enough to know what love was, I realized I was in love with Kirsten.
It wasn't the loud, dramatic kind. It was quiet, something I kept locked away inside.
When she laughed, I wanted to laugh with her. When she was sad, I felt it worse than she did.
But I never dared to say a word.
Because I knew the one she loved was Peter.
The way she looked at him was the same way I looked at her.
In my previous life, when word came back that the boat had sunk, Kirsten was holding a glass of water. Her hand started to tremble, and the water spilled all down her front. She didn't even notice.
Then the color drained from her face, inch by inch, until even her lips were bloodless.
She didn't cry. Not a single tear.
But that look on her face was more terrifying than any amount of crying.
In the days that followed, it was as if her soul had left her body.
She wouldn't speak. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't sleep.
She just sat on the hospital bed, staring out the window.
Every day after work, I went to the hospital to sit with her.
I brought her the red bean cakes she'd loved as a kid. I told her funny stories from the office.
Once in a while she'd glance at me, but her gaze would drift away almost immediately.
This went on for the better part of a year.
One day, out of nowhere, she asked me whether Peter had suffered when he died.
I told her no. The boat went down fast. He wouldn't have felt a thing.
She nodded. And finally, the tears came.
After that, she slowly started to come back.
She began eating again. Talking again. Smiling at me again.
I thought she'd moved on. I thought time could wash anything away.
So a year later, I told her how I felt.
I'd been carrying those words for years. I'd planned to carry them to my grave.
But I wanted to give myself one chance.
She was quiet for a long time. And then, to my disbelief, she nodded.
I was over the moon. In that single moment, it felt like the whole world was mine.
