For a long while, neither of us said anything.
Then she said, “You don’t have to stay.”
I turned off the stove.
“I know.”
“You can leave after the tea.”
“I know.”
She looked down at her hands.
“Then why are you still here?”
Because I loved you and failed you.
Because I confused your silence with permission.
Because I wanted the easy version of marriage and left when grief demanded the real one.
Because two months in a rented apartment had taught me that loneliness was not the same as freedom.
I did not say all of that.
Not then.
Some truths are too heavy to place on a sick person all at once.
So I said the only thing that could help.
“Because you have an appointment on Monday, and somebody needs to drive you.”
Emily covered her face with one hand.
Her shoulders shook once.
I stayed still, fighting every urge to rush forward and make myself feel forgiven.
Then she lowered her hand.
“Don’t do this because you feel guilty.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t do it because you think it makes you a good man.”
“I’m not confused about that either.”
That almost brought a smile to her face.
Almost.
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