The choir director used to say the dark hours are when God does his best work. I never believed him until that night.
The fold-out map was still on the nightstand, the route to the hospital highlighted in yellow. I'd traced it so many times the paper had gone soft.
She came in at 2am, a nurse I'd never seen before. My husband's breathing had changed, a thin rattle I didn't know how to name.
She stood in the doorway and watched. Then she walked over and picked up his hand. Not for a pulse. Just to hold it.
I looked at the clock. Her shift had ended at 1:45. She didn't leave for another twenty-three minutes.
When she finally let go, she said, "He'll rest easier now. You should, too." I didn't ask her name, and I still regret it.
That night I learned that help doesn't always announce itself. Sometimes it just shows up, stays past its time, and holds on long enough so you can let go.