I always thought about you, Ana. One of the things I loved about you most is that you were always, always right. When you spoke, everyone would stop, the room would fall silent, and when you sang, every note danced to the from your mouth straight to the hearts of your captive audience.
When you began to cough, I adhered to your pleas to keep on singing, even as your voice became fainter and fainter, until it was nothing more than a whisper. Six months later, I was there when you lay upon the hospital bed, hair nothing more than a loose set of grey threads falling from the roots.
“I’m here with you, my love, always.”
And so I told my first lie.