The day had started like every other Saturday they’d spent together for the last thirty-seven years. Rae rose before Henry and spent the early morning hours reading her latest novel. She was up to a healthy fifty novels a year and she found that Saturday mornings in her rickety wicker chair gave her the best reading time.

Her stomach started rumbling and when she looked up, she was happy to see that two and a half hours had gone by while she was lost in the depths of mystery. She placed the book down, open to her spot, over the arm of her old chair on the sun porch and got up, taking care to watch her aging joints, and went into the kitchen to prepare brunch.

She put a pot of coffee on, smiling to herself because she knew the smell would rouse Henry and he’d walk groggily but happily into the room and give her one of his famous bear hugs she loved so much. Sometimes he stood just behind her, breathing lightly on the back of her neck while she cooked the bacon and she hoped he would do that too. There was just something a little off for her that morning and she yearned for his familiarity to sooth her. She cracked the eggs and added the milk to her mixing bowl. She saw that the cast iron pan on the stove had heated nicely and poured the mixture in. she was making her slow-roasted tomato and ricotta frittata, a common recipe on her Saturday rotation and Henry’s favorite.

Soon after the eggs began to set around the edges, Henry entered the room, eyes still puffy from sleeping with the windows open despite the late spring pollen in the air. He approached her and wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her tightly and whispering, “I love you, I love you,” in her right ear. She held his face in her hands and pecked him on the cheek before returning to her meal preparation. As she turned around, she felt that he would continue standing behind her and she felt comfort wash over her.

When she was done cooking, they sat on the sun porch to soak up the late morning warmth while they ate. Henry read his weekend papers and she read the sections he wasn’t interested in. They sat in serene silence during their weekend morning ritual, emanating vibes of love and tranquility.

Rae’s hands began subtly shaking and Henry could see in her body language that she itched to go out into the garden and greet her flowers. He told her he’d clean up brunch and she jumped at the chance to go outside. She put on her sensible garden boots, her tool belt, and the large woven bonnet Henry savagely teased her about, but they both knew he liked seeing her face reflect its pinkness. She grabbed her garden knee cushion and stepped out into the early afternoon sunlight. She looked around at all they built in their time together and felt appreciative. She stepped out into the springy grass with their old Chesapeake Bay Retriever, Goldie, by her side.

Henry began by putting the leftovers in the refrigerator. He surveyed the kitchen and smiled because Rae was two things in the kitchen: a magnificent cook and a magnificent mess. He started cleaning up her mess with his back to the sink window that overlooked the garden.

Goldie started yelping—a high pitched sound of urgency that made Henry’s blood run cold. He dropped a dish on the floor and felt like he was turning around in slow motion. Goldie ran toward the house and began frantically scratching at the French door to the kitchen and her screeches snapped him out of it momentarily.

He opened the door and Goldie immediately went for him. She was all nerves and he knew something had happened to Rae. Goldie shoved her snout into his palm and nipped his fingers gently to make him react. It was just what he needed. He ran into the garden and at first he didn’t see her, but then he did.

She was laying among the yellow rose bushes, pink hat crumpled on the ground next to her. She was furled in a ball, her knees to her chest, clutching her heart. She looked like she was trying to protect it from what was happening inside of her. He picked her up and ran to the house, the still-yelping Goldie by his side.

In his distress, he couldn’t remember the number for 911, so he gingerly put her writhing body in the backseat and quickly guided Goldie back into the house, murmuring that everything was going to be okay, more for himself than for the old dog.

He drove to the hospital and by the time he pulled up at the emergency room doors, Rae had gone quiet. He picked up her limp body and hoped that he could feel her shallow breathing and that it wasn’t just wishful thinking.

He ran into the emergency room yelling for help, somebody, help. They took her. They told him to wait.

So he’s waiting and wishing he could go back to the kitchen and see her there, smiling and humming as she cooks. He’s wondering if she’ll ever get to finish the novel she left on the chair, knowing he’ll never have the heart to move it from its place if she won’t.