After 50 Years as Her Stand-In, I Walked AwayChapter 1
On her deathbed, our son asked Kirsten Swanson if she had any regrets.
Through her tears, she said the greatest regret of her life was not boarding that boat.
A sharp pain tore through my chest.
Back then, the three of us had planned a trip together.
Kirsten fainted out of nowhere. I rushed her to the hospital in a panic, and by the time I got there, Peter Gilbert had already boarded the boat.
That night, the boat sank. He was gone.
When the news reached her, her face went whiter than paper.
It was only through my constant care that she gradually pulled herself out of that darkness.
Then we got married, had children, and spent fifty years together in what I believed was love.
I thought it was the happiest life a man could ask for.
It wasn't until today that I understood.
I was nothing but a replacement.
When Kirsten's heart monitor flatlined into a single, unbroken line,
my own heart seized. I collapsed right beside her.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of that trip.
I looked at Kirsten, unconscious in the passenger seat. This time, I didn't rush her to the hospital first.
I picked up my phone.
"Peter, something happened to Kirsten."
"Don't get on that boat!"
——
The light above the emergency room flicked on.
I looked down at my hands.
They were young. No age spots. No gnarled blue veins winding beneath the skin.
Fifty years of marriage, wiped away like a dream.
When we were kids, our three families were neighbors, all living in the same old tenement building.
Peter's family was on the third floor, mine on the fourth, Kirsten's on the fifth.
The three of us were close in age.
We walked to school together, walked home together.
We played hopscotch on the concrete lot out front.
On summer nights when the power went out, the adults would drag their lawn chairs outside to cool off, and the three of us would squeeze onto one together, counting stars.
Kirsten always insisted on lying in the middle. Peter on one side, me on the other.
Even back then, I noticed that whenever she rolled over in her sleep, she always turned toward Peter.
When I was old enough to know what love was, I realized I was in love with Kirsten.
It wasn't the loud, dramatic kind. It was quiet, something I kept locked away inside.
When she laughed, I wanted to laugh with her. When she was sad, I felt it worse than she did.
But I never dared to say a word.