Chapter 10
“I didn’t tell you because I thought you’d see me as broken.”
I squeezed his hand.
“I see you as my husband.”
His shoulders shook once.
Then he bowed his head over our hands.
I moved closer and rested my forehead against his shoulder.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
There was no dramatic embrace, no sudden promise that everything would be perfect.
There was only the quiet weight of his head against mine, the scent of hospital soap on his skin, and the painful knowledge that love could exist alongside fear and still fail to become honesty.
After several minutes, I asked, “What do you need from me tomorrow?”
He was silent.
“I don’t know.”
“Then let’s start with what you don’t need.”
He looked at me.
“You don’t need to protect me from every difficult thing. You don’t need to pretend you’re calm. You don’t need to decide what I can handle.”
His eyes softened.
“And what do you need?”
“I need you to tell me what the doctors say. Even if it’s uncertain. Even if it’s frightening.”
“I can do that.”
“And after surgery, you come home when they say you can. Not back to the hospital. Home.”
He hesitated.
“I may need rehabilitation.”
“Then we’ll arrange it.”
“I may not be able to work for a while.”
“Then we’ll adjust.”
“I may not be able to operate again.”
The words hung in the air.
I felt his hand tense around mine.
I took a breath.
“Then we’ll grieve that together.”
His eyes filled again.
“And if I don’t know who I am afterward?”
“Then we’ll find out.”
He looked at me as though I had offered him something impossible.
“What if I’m not the same?”
“You aren’t the same now.”
He flinched.
“I don’t mean that cruelly,” I said. “None of us are the same after a year of being afraid. But you’re still Marcus. You’re still Emily’s father. You’re still the man who burns toast whenever he tries to make breakfast.”
A shaky laugh escaped him.
“I don’t burn it every time.”
“Only when you’re distracted.”
“I’m always distracted.”
“That’s true.”
He lowered his forehead to mine.
“I missed you.”
I closed my eyes.
“I was right there.”
“I know.”
“That was the problem.”
A voice sounded from the doorway.
“Marcus?”
We turned.
David stood there, holding a clipboard. He stopped when he saw us.