Daniel asked me to close the door.
I did.
Then I returned to the chair.
He looked exhausted.
The conversation seemed to cost him more energy than he had.
"Do you want me to call the nurse?"
He shook his head.
"Just give me a minute."
I waited.
He reached for the water glass.
His hand trembled slightly.
I helped him lift it.
He took a small sip and put it back.
Then he began.
"It started with the headaches."
I remembered those.
He used to sit at the kitchen table with his fingers pressed against his forehead.
Sometimes he would turn off the television because the sound bothered him.
I had asked him to see a doctor.
He said he would.
He never told me when he finally went.
"I thought it was my eyesight," he said. "Then I started feeling sick in the mornings."
I listened.
He explained that the first appointments had been frustrating.
Tests.
More tests.
Waiting for calls.
Waiting for results.
He had gone to work as usual because he didn't want anyone asking questions.
He had kept the appointments quiet.
He said he had convinced himself the doctors were being overly cautious.
Then one appointment changed everything.
"They found something that needed more investigation."
"What did they find?"
He hesitated.
"I had a serious condition."
I leaned forward.
"Which condition?"
He told me the name.
I won't pretend I understood every medical word.
He explained that it was serious and would require treatment and monitoring.
The doctors had discussed possible outcomes.
They had not given him a simple answer.
There was uncertainty.
There were risks.
There were days when he felt hopeful and days when he could barely get out of bed.
I looked at his arm again.
The bruises.
The IV marks.
The thin skin.
"Did you start treatment before the divorce?"
He nodded.
"Some appointments. Not everything."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He looked down.
"I kept thinking I would tell you after the next appointment."
"Then after the next one?"
"Yes."
"And then?"
He gave a small nod.
"Then I kept waiting."
I shook my head.
"That isn't how a marriage works."
"I know."
I looked toward the window.
I remembered the last Christmas before our divorce.
Daniel had sat beside the tree while the children opened their presents.
He had smiled, but he had barely eaten.
I had asked whether he was feeling well.
He said he had a stomach problem.
I had brought him tea.
He thanked me and went upstairs.
I remembered being annoyed because I had wanted him to help clean up.
Now that memory felt different.
"Did the children know?"
"No."
"Did anyone know?"
He paused.
"A few people knew I was having appointments."
"Who?"
"One person at work. My doctor. Nobody in the family."
I stared at him.
"You were carrying all of this alone?"
He nodded.
I didn't know what to say.
Then I remembered the divorce.
"You still haven't explained why you chose to tell me about another woman."
He looked at me.
"I thought you would be angry enough to leave."
I laughed bitterly.
"That part worked."
"I know."
"You could have told me you needed space. You could have told me you were afraid. You could have told me you didn't want to continue the marriage."
He nodded.
"I couldn't bear the thought of watching you give up your life to care for me."
I stared at him.
"That was my choice to make."
He looked down.
"I know that now."
I pressed my hands together.
"You took away my chance to decide."
He didn't disagree.
That was what made it worse.
He wasn't trying to defend the lie anymore.
He was admitting it.
And somehow that made me angrier.
I asked about the apartment.
He said he had chosen a small place because it was close to work and his medical appointments.
He had kept the furniture simple.
A bed.
A table.
Two chairs.
A bookshelf.
He had taken the photograph of the children because he wanted something familiar to look at.
I pictured him there.
Alone.
The apartment across town.
The plant on the windowsill.
The secondhand bookshelf the children had told me about.
I remembered how they had described his place.
They had said it was small but tidy.
They had said their father made pancakes.
I had imagined him building a new life.
Instead, he had apparently been trying to keep the old one at a distance.
"Why didn't you let the children visit more often?" I asked.
"I didn't want them to see me getting worse."
"They were your children."
"I know."
"They missed you."
His eyes filled again.
"I missed them too."
He turned his face away.
I felt my throat tighten.
For years, I had told myself he had chosen another woman over his family.
Now he was telling me he had chosen isolation because he thought it would spare us pain.
It was still a terrible decision.
But it was not the decision I had believed he made.
I asked whether his condition had improved after the divorce.
He shook his head.
"There were better periods."
"And worse ones?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever think about telling me?"
"Every time I saw you."
I looked at him.
"Then why didn't you?"
He closed his eyes.
"Because I knew what I had done."
I didn't speak.
He continued.
"I thought if I told you the truth, you would look at me with pity. I didn't want that."
I felt something sharp move through my chest.
"You thought I would pity you?"
He nodded.
"I didn't want to become the sick man you had to look after."
I looked at the water glass.
The same kind of ordinary glass he had used at our kitchen table.
I remembered the night he left.
He had carried his overnight bag downstairs.
He had stopped beside the front door.
He had looked toward the children's rooms.
I had thought he was checking whether anyone was awake.
Now I wondered whether he had been trying to memorize the house.
"Did you think you were going to die?" I asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "I thought it was possible."
I lowered my eyes.
"How long have you known?"
"Since before the divorce."
The room seemed to grow smaller.
I sat very still.
He had known something serious was happening.
He had been frightened.
And instead of allowing me to stand beside him, he had made himself the villain.
I couldn't understand it.
I still couldn't forgive it.
But I could finally see that there had been another story beneath the one I had spent five years repeating.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The Questions I Had Never Asked Because I Thought I Already Knew the Answers
The Wednesday Night Daniel Told Me There Was Someone Else, and I Realized Our Marriage Was Already Over
Part 6 of 20
