I went back to the hospital the next morning with the photograph still in my mind.
The cracked corner of the frame.
The date written on the back.
And that little notebook hidden in the drawer beneath his bookshelf.
I had thought about it all night.
I had wondered what Daniel had written inside.
I had also wondered why he had kept it instead of throwing it away.
When I entered his room, he was awake.
The blue-bordered card from the children sat beside his water glass.
He looked at me and tried to smile.
“You came back.”
“I said I would.”
He nodded.
I pulled the chair closer to his bed.
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked him about the notebook.
His smile disappeared.
“You found it.”
“I didn't open it.”
“Thank you.”
“I don't know why you're thanking me.”
“Because there are things in there I wasn't ready to show you.”
I looked at his hands.
They seemed smaller than I remembered.
“Are those things about your illness?”
“Some of them.”
“And the rest?”
He took a slow breath.
“Things I should have told you before I left.”
I wanted to ask him everything at once.
I wanted to know what he had written on the day he signed the divorce papers.
I wanted to know whether he had cried in that apartment.
I wanted to know whether he had ever sat alone and wished he could walk back through our front door.
But I didn't ask.
Instead, I said something that had been sitting in my chest since the previous evening.
“You made me believe I wasn't enough.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“No, I don't think you do.”
“I know I hurt you.”
“You didn't just hurt me. You made me question fourteen years of my life.”
He turned his face toward me.
“I never wanted you to think those years meant nothing.”
“But that's exactly what I thought.”
My voice was shaking.
“I thought you had found someone younger, someone easier, someone you wanted more than me.”
“There wasn't anyone.”
“I know that now.”
I looked toward the window.
“But for five years, I didn't.”
He didn't defend himself.
That almost made it harder.
“I used to wonder what she had that I didn't,” I continued. “I wondered whether you had been unhappy for years and I was too foolish to notice.”
Daniel swallowed.
“You weren't foolish.”
“Then what was I supposed to be?”
He had no answer.
I watched the monitor beside him.
The steady sound filled the silence.
Finally, he said, “I thought I was protecting you.”
“You keep saying that as if it makes everything better.”
“It doesn't.”
“Then stop using it to explain away what you did.”
He nodded.
“All right.”
I leaned back.
“I don't know what you want from me, Daniel.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I wanted you to know the truth.”
“You called me here because you wanted to tell me the truth. But you still haven't told me all of it.”
His eyes moved toward the small card beside his water glass.
The children had written their names at the bottom.
He touched the edge of it.
“I don't know how to explain everything without making it sound like an excuse.”
“Try.”
He stared at the ceiling.
“When I first started going to the doctors, I was afraid.”
“I know.”
“I didn't tell you because I thought the results might be wrong. Then the tests continued. Then there were more appointments.”
“You could have told me.”
“I could have.”
“You should have.”
“Yes.”
He looked at me again.
“I kept thinking I would tell you after the next appointment. Then after the next result. Then after I understood what was happening.”
“And instead, you told me you were cheating.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
I stood and walked to the window.
Outside, a nurse pushed a cart down the corridor.
Someone laughed softly near the nurses' station.
Ordinary sounds.
The kind of sounds that made the room feel even more unreal.
“When did you decide to leave?” I asked.
“Before I told you about the other woman.”
“How long before?”
“A few weeks.”
I turned around.
“You had already decided?”
“I thought I had.”
“And you never gave me a chance to know what was happening.”
“No.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
“Did you ever consider that I might have wanted to stay?”
He looked down.
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“Because I couldn't stand the thought of watching you give up your life to look after me.”
“You don't get to decide what my life is worth.”
“I understand that now.”
“You should have understood it then.”
He didn't argue.
I returned to the chair.
For the first time since arriving at the hospital, I felt tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
I had spent five years building a life around an explanation that wasn't true.
Now the truth was sitting in front of me.
And it didn't make the past disappear.
It only changed its shape.
“Can I ask you something?” I said.
“Anything.”
“Did you ever regret the lie?”
Daniel looked at me.
“Every day.”
“Even when I hated you?”
“Especially then.”
“Why didn't you correct me?”
He took a long time to answer.
“Because every time I thought about telling you, I imagined you looking at me with pity.”
“I was your wife.”
“I know.”
“I was the person who had promised to stand beside you.”
“I know.”
“You could have trusted me.”
He closed his eyes.
“I should have.”
I didn't forgive him.
Not that morning.
But I stayed until a nurse came to check his medication.
Before I left, I asked whether he wanted me to bring the notebook.
He looked surprised.
“Would you?”
“If you want me to.”
He nodded slowly.
“Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I'll be ready.”
I placed the children's card closer to his hand.
“Then tomorrow.”
As I walked out, I understood something I hadn't understood before.
The notebook wasn't simply a record of his illness.
It was a record of all the things he had been unable to say.
And I wasn't sure I was ready to read them either.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: THE NOTEBOOK ON THE TABLE
The Wednesday Night Daniel Told Me There Was Someone Else, and I Realized Our Marriage Was Already Over
Part 9 of 20
