“He was her husband, Marlene. If I don’t take care of him, who will?”

I insisted that she could not understand.

Then I drove home through the darkness, sat on the edge of my bed, and cried without knowing exactly why.

Two months later, I accepted.

The courthouse was cramped, chilly, and carried the scent of aging paper.

I chose a navy dress because white seemed dishonest and black felt like an omen.

My hands shook endlessly.

Michael slipped the ring onto my finger and looked at me the way a drowning man might look at something keeping him afloat.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I signed the  marriage license with unsteady fingers, never imagining that my sister’s ghost was already moving to save me.

For the first week, Michael behaved tenderly.

He cooked breakfast.

He used my name instead of hers.

Then he left for the store one morning, and everything shifted.

Clara’s photograph seemed to watch me from the hallway shelf.

A silver sedan turned into the driveway.

An elderly man emerged, holding a small wooden box tightly against his chest.

His suit was wrinkled, and his gray hair had thinned.

The moment he looked toward the porch, he stopped cold.

“My God,” he whispered. “You’re the living image of her.”

“I know who you are.” His voice trembled. “May I come in?”

I let him inside because my legs would not have supported me much longer.

He placed the wooden box on the kitchen table as carefully as though it contained something holy.

“My name doesn’t matter much,” he said. “What matters is that your sister came to my office two days before she died.”

“She made me swear an oath.” He touched the lid. “This was to be delivered to you under one condition, and one condition only. If Michael ever  married you.”

The room seemed to tilt beneath me.

His expression was gentle but filled with sorrow. “Your sister knew exactly what kind of man she married. And she knew what he would eventually do to you.”