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That was all.
No date.
No explanation.
Just two words written in Thomas’s careful handwriting across cream-colored paper, tucked inside the faded green backpack his lawyer had placed in my lap less than an hour after my husband died.
The first envelope said Bus Stop.
My husband.
I had been married to Thomas for seven days.
The word still sounded strange in my head, like a coat I had borrowed from someone else’s closet.
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