stood between my husband and me.
No government paperwork.
No explosion story.
No friend deciding what truth I could survive.
Just James.
And me.
I lowered myself onto my knees and placed all fifty-six yellow roses beneath his name.
The enormous bouquet he had promised me.
Late by more than half a century.
But finally delivered.
Then I removed the crooked paper flower from my pocket.
“You idiot,” I whispered.
Tears blurred my vision as a small laugh escaped me.
“You beautiful idiot. This really is the worst flower I’ve
