Late-stage ovarian cancer. Six weeks to live. The doctor told me to call my emergency contact. My husband, Owen, was my emergency contact. But at that moment, he was with my parents, celebrating the tenth anniversary of my adopted sister, Lila, joining our family. I clutched the diagnosis in my hand and called him from the back of a taxi. In the family group chat, I saw a photo of him glancing down at his phone as it lit up. Then he silenced it, flipped it facedown on the table, and went back to adjusting Lila’s shawl. I listened to the dial tone drone on, and my heart flatlined. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day we were supposed to get our marriage license at City Hall. Owen smiled and nudged me. “Mara, hurry up. It’s our turn.” I shook his hand off, looked at the clerk, and said calmly, “No. I’m not getting married.” “His name,” I added, “has no place on any document of mine.” ... The heavy doors of City Hall swung shut be......
