Growing up, I'd used to think that when I got old I would have absolutely no regrets whatsoever about my life choices.

How idiotic. Now that I was, in fact, old, decrepit as a shipwreck, I found myself plagued with regrets, way too many regrets, more than I'd like to admit to myself. Not that anyone ever forced me to admit anything. But he knew. I knew he knew. He was just that good a person to never say a word about it. For that I was grateful.

Now I sat beside his bed, waiting. He was calm. He said nothing. There wasn't a twitch of worry on his face. Well, I supposed at this point there was no point in worrying after all. Que sera sera. The future would take care of itself and all that.

I snickered. He raised an eyebrow. Why are you snickering? I waved a hand and shook my head. He wouldn't understand. He had no future. He was going to die in a couple minutes and I did not want him to face afterlife with needless thoughts. I wanted him to die easily, with no unresolved questions nagging in his brain as it began to shut down for good. Sure enough, curiosity left his eyes and he went back staring at me at ease.

I wondered. Would I be as at peace as he was when death came calling? The optimist in me would like to believe I would. After all, I'd had more than a decent life. A saintly partner, two beautiful children, a big house in Falls Church, and a stake at a booming travel company in Dupont Circle. Tens of years of shenanigan-free stability. Yet even as I mentally listed these achievements, I knew I wouldn't die without some great questions nagging in my mind. And chief among those questions:

Did I make the right choice?

Yes.

Probably. Maybe. I thought. In truth, the question had ceased to matter when I made the vow. Until death do us part. My lot was to stick with him rain or shine; that's how it had been since I'd committed to him and that was how it would remain. As if in exchange, all these years since I'd said the words, he never asked me whether I was truly, absolutely, unconditionally in love with him. Because I wasn't.

Because a part of me, a super tiny part of me that still existed no matter how hard I pretended it didn't, still desired that man. The other man. The only one who could make me throw away everything I held dear and sacred in order to keep him safe.

If only he hadn't been so proud. If only he'd had enough sense to quit it with his knightly bullshit. If only he'd asked me.

But he didn't.

I left him. I had no choice. I wanted a family. But he was unwilling to build one with me, stuck with the one he'd lost. Much as I felt sorry for him, I didn't desire to drown with him. So I left him for the first man who came.

A sudden rustling noise brought me back to present. He was huffing. I looked him over, and then I saw. It was time. His eyes were clouding over. I placed a hand on his and he squeezed it. With the last of his strength, he flicked a finger at me, beckoning me to lean over. There was something I had to say before I died, he said without a word.

My heart drumming in my chest, my eyes welled up at his sight, I put my ear above his mouth, bracing myself for the last words of my husband.

"Tyger. Tyger."

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