The next morning, Daniel called before I had finished making coffee.
His voice sounded tired.
Not frightened.
Just tired.
“Are you busy today?”
I looked at the old wooden chair beside the kitchen table.
“No. Why?”
“I wondered if the children might come over.”
“They're still asleep. I'll ask them when they wake up.”
“Only if they want to.”
“I know.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “I don't want them to feel they have to visit because I'm sick.”
“They want to see you, Daniel.”
“I know. I just don't want them to feel guilty if they have other things to do.”
I understood what he meant.
But I also knew the children had already spent years wondering whether their father wanted them around.
I wasn't going to let his fear create another misunderstanding.
“They can have ordinary days and still love you,” I said. “You don't have to make every visit feel like a goodbye.”
He breathed out slowly.
“All right.”
I told him I would call later.
After breakfast, I asked the children whether they wanted to visit.
They both said yes.
The older one had some schoolwork to finish first.
The younger one wanted to bring the photographs they had found in Daniel's apartment.
We agreed to go in the afternoon.
Before leaving, I packed a small container of food.
I remembered how Daniel used to complain that I always made too much.
I almost smiled.
Then I wondered whether he would be able to eat it.
At his apartment, he was sitting near the window.
The plant had been watered.
A few leaves still looked weak, but the soil was dark.
“You remembered,” the younger child said.
Daniel looked at the plant.
“I did.”
“Good.”
The older child placed the photographs on the table.
“We brought these.”
Daniel leaned forward.
He looked at each one carefully.
There was a birthday picture.
A school photograph.
A picture from a holiday when the children were younger.
He laughed at one of them.
“I remember this day.”
“You made us walk too far,” the older child said.
“I thought it was a short walk.”
“It wasn't.”
Daniel smiled.
“You were both complaining before we reached the car.”
“We were tired.”
“I was tired too.”
The younger child laughed.
“You always said that.”
For a while, they looked through the photographs.
I sat nearby.
I noticed Daniel kept returning to the same picture.
It was one of the children standing beside him at a birthday party.
His arm was around their shoulders.
He looked younger.
The children looked smaller.
The room seemed quieter when the laughter stopped.
Daniel placed the photograph on the table.
“I wish I had more pictures with you.”
The older child looked at him.
“We can take more.”
Daniel nodded.
“I'd like that.”
The younger one picked up a phone.
“Let's take one now.”
Daniel tried to straighten his shirt.
The child stood beside him.
The older one moved to the other side.
I lifted the phone and took the picture.
Daniel looked tired.
But he was smiling.
The children asked to see it.
They crowded around the screen.
“That's good,” the younger one said.
“Send it to me,” Daniel asked.
The older child sent it.
He looked at the picture again.
“Thank you.”
We stayed through the afternoon.
Daniel ate a little.
He asked about school.
He listened when the children described their plans.
When they talked about an upcoming event, he asked for the date.
The older child told him.
“Would you like me to come?” Daniel asked.
“Of course.”
“I'll try.”
“You don't have to promise,” the child said.
Daniel looked at them.
“I won't promise what I can't do. But I want to come.”
That seemed to satisfy them.
When it was time to leave, the younger child helped put the photographs back into their envelope.
Daniel asked me to stay for a few minutes.
The children went downstairs first.
I remained near the table.
He looked at the photograph they had just taken.
“I want to keep that one somewhere I can see it.”
“Print it.”
“I might.”
“You have a shelf full of photographs.”
He smiled.
“I know.”
Then his expression changed.
“I need to talk to you about something practical.”
I sat down.
“What is it?”
“My papers.”
I waited.
“There's a folder in the drawer. It has the information about my appointments and the people to contact.”
“I saw the folder.”
“There's also a list of things the doctors have told me.”
“Have you kept it updated?”
“Yes.”
He pointed toward the bookshelf.
“I want you to know where it is.”
I looked at him.
“Daniel, you don't have to make every conversation about what happens if you're gone.”
“I know.”
“Then why are we doing this now?”
“Because I don't want you searching for things when you're already upset.”
I understood the practical reason.
I still didn't like hearing it.
“All right,” I said. “Show me.”
He opened the drawer and took out a folder.
Inside were appointment cards, papers from the hospital, and notes he had written.
He explained what each section contained.
I listened.
I asked questions.
I made a note of the information I didn't already have.
When he finished, he looked relieved.
“Thank you.”
“It's better that things are organized.”
He nodded.
Then he looked at the folder again.
“I should have let you know about all this years ago.”
“Yes.”
“I thought keeping it private would make it easier.”
“It didn't.”
“I know.”
I put the papers back in the folder.
“Daniel, I want to help with what needs doing. But I don't want every moment we have left to become a list of arrangements.”
He looked at me.
“You're right.”
“Let's talk about the children. Let's talk about ordinary things. Let's let them tell you about their lives.”
He smiled faintly.
“I'd like that.”
We sat quietly for a moment.
Then he asked, “Do you remember the first house we looked at?”
I laughed softly.
“The one with the terrible kitchen?”
“The kitchen wasn't terrible.”
“The cupboard door wouldn't close.”
“That was one cupboard.”
“And the bathroom tap leaked.”
He smiled.
“You said we could fix it.”
“We did fix it.”
“You did.”
We talked about that house.
Then the next one.
Then the day we moved into the home where the children grew up.
He remembered the boxes.
I remembered the broken lamp.
He remembered the first night we ate dinner on the floor because the table hadn't arrived.
We laughed about the things that had once seemed like problems.
I realized how long it had been since we had talked about our life without arguing about the end of it.
Before I left, Daniel asked me to send him the photograph from that afternoon.
“I will.”
“And tell the children I liked seeing them.”
“You can tell them yourself.”
He smiled.
“I will.”
On the drive home, I sent him the picture.
A few minutes later, he replied with two words.
Thank you.
I placed the phone beside me.
For the first time, I wasn't wondering who he was with or what he was doing across town.
I knew.
He was in his apartment.
Looking at a photograph of his children.
And I was driving home with the knowledge that we had shared an ordinary afternoon.
It wasn't enough to replace five years.
But it was something we had not allowed ourselves to have before.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: WHEN HIS BODY ASKED HIM TO STOP
The Wednesday Night Daniel Told Me There Was Someone Else, and I Realized Our Marriage Was Already Over
Part 17 of 20
