When Sam woke up that summer morning,
he found Deborah next to him peacefully
asleep. They had been married for over
half a century. Now the couple found life
a daily struggle with inevitable health
setbacks and other issues.

Recently they spent much of their time
searching their home for a gun they bought
a few years ago; they became concerned due
to a rash of burglaries in their normally safe
community. But they could not find the
weapon anywhere.

That morning he got out of bed to see if
Deborah might be stirring. He walked
to her side of the bed and recoiled - her
face resembled a frozen mask...and when
he touched her arms, they were shockingly
cold. After a brief pause, he knew he was
too late; she had crossed over; no hope of
reviving her. And then he lifted her slightly,
tearfully embracing her, when something
metallic seemed to slip from her stiff fingers
onto the floor. It was the gun! Obviously she
had found it - but had never told him, never
said a word about it.

It may have been snug in her hand all night,
resting under her satin pillow, her finger poised
on the trigger...what would possess her to do
such a thing, he wondered. Why did she never
tell him she had found it?

Why?