They called and told me that he’s ready to come home and I was confused because we’d all moved on with our lives. There’s this vague idea in the back of my mind that I thought he had died. That’s why we grew up. That’s why we moved away. That’s why we got married. But maybe he didn’t die? Maybe there wasn’t a funeral? I thought for sure there was a funeral. I remember exactly, buying a pink sweater to wear because I refused to wear all black. If I’d known he was just in a coma or something, I never would have left him. I would have had no reason to buy that sweater. I never would have gone to college, moved to South Dakota, moved back to Kansas, worried about what my next move was, lost my religion, fallen in love with my neighbor, gotten married—without him. I never would have done those things. I would have just sat there, next to him, for fifteen years, waiting for him to come back.
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