My husband passed away after 62 years of marriage. At his funeral, a young girl approached me, handed me an envelope, and said, "He asked me to give this to you today."

Her mother lay in a narrow bed on the third floor, pale and thin, with tubes attached to her arm. She looked younger than her condition, the way illness can reduce a person to an unjust vulnerability.

"She's been here for two months," said Gini softly, sitting at the foot of the bed. "Harold sometimes came to see us. The last time I saw him, he gave me this envelope and made me promise to give it to you."

"Did he say why?"

Gini shook her head. "I asked him where he was going. He just smiled and said his health wasn't very good anymore."

"Harold sometimes came to see us."

His words were still echoing in my mind when I entered the corridor, where I found the doctor on duty.

"The operation is urgent," he told me. "Without it, her chances of survival are slim. The problem is the cost. For now, the hospital doesn't have the necessary funds to perform the procedure."

I stood in that corridor and thought back to Harold, lying in his bed during the months leading up to the end, writing a letter, preparing a key and trusting a child to give it to me on a specific date.

"Without that, his chances aren't good."