The next few days were uneven.
Daniel had mornings when he could talk for an hour.
Then there were afternoons when he barely wanted to sit up.
I learned not to judge the day by how it began.
The children called him regularly.
Sometimes they visited.
Sometimes they only spoke for a few minutes.
I stopped trying to make every conversation sound cheerful.
We talked honestly about how he felt.
If he was tired, he said so.
If he needed to rest, he rested.
It was a small change.
But it mattered.
One afternoon, I went to his apartment and found him sitting at the table with his notebook open.
He looked up when I entered.
“I was writing.”
“Are you feeling well enough?”
“Just a little.”
I put the food I had brought on the counter.
“What are you writing?”
“Things I want to remember.”
I glanced at the notebook.
“Your appointments?”
“Some of them.”
He closed it.
I didn't ask to read it.
We had agreed that he would tell me what he wanted me to know.
I wasn't going to turn every private page into something I had a right to inspect.
I made tea.
He watched me move around the small kitchen.
“You still make it the same way.”
“Tea?”
“Yes.”
“I don't think there's much room for improvement.”
He smiled.
I placed a cup in front of him.
He took a small sip.
Then he set it down.
“Too hot?”
“No. I'm just not very hungry.”
I sat across from him.
“Did you eat earlier?”
“A little.”
“Daniel.”
“I know.”
I didn't lecture him.
I had learned that asking the same question ten times didn't make his body cooperate.
Instead, I asked whether he wanted me to call the care team about the difficulty eating.
He said he would speak to them.
We sat quietly.
Then he looked at me.
“Do you ever think about what would have happened if I had told you?”
I knew what he meant.
“Sometimes.”
“What do you think would have happened?”
“I think we would have been frightened.”
He nodded.
“I think we would have argued about what to do.”
He smiled faintly.
“Probably.”
“I think I would have wanted to go to every appointment.”
He looked down.
“I would have let you.”
“You don't know that.”
“No. But I would have tried.”
I looked at him.
“And I think we would have had days when we were angry with each other.”
“I'm sure.”
“I might have been impatient.”
“I was difficult before I got sick.”
“You were.”
He laughed.
It was brief, but real.
Then I continued.
“But we would have known what we were facing. We would have made decisions together.”
He nodded.
“That would have been better.”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his fingers together.
“I kept thinking that if I stayed away, I could spare you the worst parts.”
“You didn't spare me anything.”
“I know.”
“You gave me a different kind of pain.”
He looked at me.
“I am sorry.”
I believed him.
But I didn't tell him it was all right.
Because it wasn't.
A little later, the older child called.
Daniel answered.
They talked about an upcoming school event.
The child had been working on something for several weeks and wanted Daniel to see it.
“Bring it next time,” Daniel said.
“It's a little big.”
“We'll find room.”
The child laughed.
“I'll bring it.”
When the call ended, Daniel looked at me.
“I want to see everything they do.”
“I know.”
“I don't want them to think I wasn't interested.”
“They don't.”
“I missed too much.”
“You can't change that now.”
He nodded.
“But you can listen when they tell you about what's happening today.”
He looked at the phone.
“I can do that.”
The next morning, Daniel had a difficult night.
He called me after sunrise.
His voice was weaker than it had been the day before.
I asked whether he had spoken to the medical team.
He said he had.
I went to the apartment.
He was resting on the sofa.
The folder was on the table.
The plant stood by the window.
The photograph from our recent visit was propped beside the older beach picture.
I sat near him.
“Do you need anything?”
“Just company.”
I stayed.
We didn't talk much.
At one point, he reached for the water glass.
I moved it closer.
He took a sip.
Then he looked at me.
“Do you remember the first time we brought the children home?”
I smiled.
“I remember being terrified.”
“You kept checking whether they were breathing.”
“So did you.”
“I pretended I wasn't.”
“You were worse than I was.”
He smiled.
We talked about those early days.
We remembered the sleepless nights.
The little clothes.
The first steps.
The first day of school.
There were things we remembered differently.
We corrected each other.
For a while, we were simply two people remembering a life they had shared.
Then Daniel grew quiet.
“I wish I had been brave enough to tell you.”
“I wish you had too.”
“I thought being brave meant leaving before you could see me get worse.”
I shook my head.
“Being brave might have meant staying and letting me be there.”
He looked at me.
“I understand that now.”
I reached for the water glass and placed it back on the table.
“Rest.”
He closed his eyes.
I stayed until he fell asleep.
When I left, I made sure the folder was in the drawer where we had agreed to keep it.
I checked that his phone was within reach.
I called the care team about the change in how he was feeling.
I didn't make those decisions because I was his wife.
I made them because I was someone who cared about him and because he had finally allowed me to know what was happening.
That evening, the children visited.
They brought the project they had promised to show him.
Daniel was tired, but he wanted to see it.
The older child explained how it worked.
Daniel listened carefully.
He asked questions.
He praised the effort.
The younger child sat beside him.
“You look tired, Dad.”
“I am.”
“Do you want us to come another day?”
Daniel shook his head.
“I want you here. I just might close my eyes for a little while.”
The children stayed.
They talked quietly.
At one point, Daniel drifted off.
The younger child looked at me.
“Is he okay?”
“He's resting.”
“Can we stay?”
“Of course.”
They stayed until it was time to go.
Before leaving, the older child placed the project on the table.
“Keep it here. You can look at it again.”
Daniel opened his eyes.
“I will.”
The children hugged him.
He held them gently.
After they left, he looked at the project.
“I wish I had more time.”
I sat beside him.
“So do I.”
He looked at me.
“I don't want the children to remember only this.”
“They won't.”
“What if they do?”
“They'll remember the beach. Birthdays. School events. The silly things you said. They'll remember you asking questions and laughing with them.”
He looked toward the photographs.
“I hope so.”
“They will.”
I wasn't sure whether I could promise that.
But I knew the children had more memories than the hospital room.
And I wanted them to keep those.
Click here to continue reading: PART 19: THE LAST THINGS HE WANTED TO SAY
The Wednesday Night Daniel Told Me There Was Someone Else, and I Realized Our Marriage Was Already Over
Part 18 of 20
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