Margaret slowly closed the binder.
She didn’t answer.
“Margaret?”
“Once.”
My stomach tightened.
“To whom?”
She looked directly at me.
“You.”
I sat down.
For twenty-eight years, Larry had watched strangers walk into that building as separate people and walk out legally connected.
Whenever someone had no friend or family member beside them, Larry stepped forward.
His name appeared again and again in those records.
But always beside the same word.
Witness.
Never husband.
Never spouse.
Not until me.
Margaret opened another drawer.
“There’s something else.”
She pulled out a clear plastic sleeve.
“Larry asked me to keep this after your marriage was recorded, in case you ever came looking for me.”
Inside was a copy of our marriage certificate.
My name was there.
So was Larry’s.
And beside his name was the word:
SPOUSE.
I remembered how carefully he had folded his copy after our ceremony.
How he had asked the clerk twice where he needed to sign.
I had teased him about it.
“You’re acting like this is an actual wedding.”
For a moment, Larry had gone quiet.
Then he smiled.
“First marriage. Let me be nervous.”
I laughed then.
Sitting in that courthouse, I couldn’t.
Margaret took the chair beside me.
“Did Larry tell you why he wanted to marry you?”
“He gave me a reason.”
I explained the letter.
The story about burial arrangements.
His confession that he had made the situation sound more desperate because he knew I would help if there was a problem to solve.
Margaret listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she didn’t defend him.
“That wasn’t fair to you.”
I looked at her.
“He knew you would say yes to a problem,” she continued. “Larry was always much better at asking someone for practical help than asking someone to choose him.”
I looked down at his signature.
“What was I actually saying yes to?”
Margaret glanced at our marriage certificate.
“That isn’t my story to tell.”
For a second, I wanted to demand an answer.
Then I remembered that the rest of Larry’s letter was still inside my purse.
He had specifically told me to visit the courthouse first.
He wanted me to see those records.
The hundreds of witness signatures.
Our marriage certificate.
The word spouse.
I left the courthouse and took the subway home.
But when the train reached Larry’s old station, I stepped off.
The woman at the coffee kiosk recognized me immediately.
“Two?”
For a second, I nearly said no.
Then I looked toward Larry’s empty place beside the station entrance.
“Yeah.”
She handed me my coffee with cream.
And Larry’s black coffee.
I carried both cups outside and sat in his usual spot.
In two years, I had never stayed there long enough to finish an entire cup.
I placed Larry’s coffee beside me.
Then I unfolded the next page of his letter.
