Daniel was taken back to the hospital a few days later.
His condition had become harder to manage at home.
The decision was made with the medical team.
He was tired, and he needed more support than the apartment could provide.
The children came with me.
They didn't ask whether he would be home again.
I think they already understood that we couldn't be certain.
When we entered his room, Daniel looked toward the door.
“There you are.”
The younger child went straight to him.
The older one placed the project on the table.
“We brought it.”
Daniel smiled.
“I see that.”
He asked them to explain it again.
They did.
He listened, even when he needed to pause.
After a while, the children sat beside him.
The younger one took his hand.
“Are you scared?”
Daniel looked at the child.
“Yes,” he said.
The answer was quiet.
But it was honest.
The child nodded.
“Me too.”
Daniel squeezed the hand gently.
“That's all right.”
The older child looked at him.
“Do you want us to be here?”
“Yes.”
“Then we'll come.”
Daniel's eyes filled.
“I love you both.”
“We love you too.”
I stood near the window.
I wanted to let them have the moment without turning it into something bigger.
When the children went to get a drink, Daniel asked me to sit.
I pulled the chair close.
He looked at the blue-bordered card.
It was still beside his water glass.
The corners were worn now.
“Do you remember when they gave me this?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I would keep it forever.”
“You can keep it as long as you want.”
He looked at me.
“There's something I need to ask.”
I waited.
“Will you help the children remember the good parts?”
“I will.”
“Even when they're angry with me?”
“Yes.”
“Even when they ask why I left?”
I took a breath.
“I won't lie to them. I'll tell them the truth.”
He nodded.
“That's what I want.”
I looked at him.
“I won't tell them your lie was all right.”
“I don't want you to.”
“I won't pretend it didn't hurt.”
“I know.”
“But I will tell them you loved them. I will tell them you were frightened and made a terrible decision.”
He closed his eyes.
“Thank you.”
I sat quietly.
Then he said, “I want to apologize to you properly.”
“You've apologized.”
“I know. But I want to say it without explaining myself.”
I looked at him.
He took a breath.
“I am sorry I lied about another woman.”
I said nothing.
“I am sorry I let you believe I had replaced you.”
His voice shook.
“I am sorry I left you to answer questions from the children without knowing the truth.”
He paused.
“I am sorry I took away your chance to decide whether you wanted to stand beside me.”
My eyes filled.
“I am sorry I made you feel unwanted.”
I looked down at my hands.
For five years, I had wanted an explanation.
Now I had one.
But what I needed most was the part he was finally saying.
He wasn't blaming his illness.
He wasn't saying fear had forced him.
He was admitting that he had chosen to lie.
I reached for his hand.
It felt thin in mine.
“I wish you had trusted me,” I said.
“I wish I had too.”
“I loved you.”
He looked at me.
“I know.”
“I don't know what that love looks like now.”
“You don't have to decide.”
I nodded.
He looked relieved that I hadn't promised more.
We sat together for a while.
Then he asked about the children.
I told him they were outside.
He asked whether they were all right.
“They're doing their best.”
“I hate that they've had to go through this.”
“So do I.”
He looked at the photograph from the apartment.
The one the children had taken with him.
“Can you keep that picture?”
“Of course.”
“And the beach picture?”
“Yes.”
“And the card?”
I smiled through my tears.
“You can keep the card yourself.”
He looked at it.
“I want you to have it eventually.”
I didn't answer.
He reached for the notebook.
It was in the drawer beside his bed.
He opened it to the last page.
“I wrote something here.”
I leaned closer.
The handwriting was faint.
He read the words aloud.
I spent too long believing I could protect the people I loved by keeping them outside my fear.
I was wrong.
I should have let them stand beside me.
He closed the notebook.
“I don't want you to remember only the lie.”
“I won't.”
“But I don't want you to forget it either.”
I looked at him.
“I won't do either.”
He nodded.
The children came back into the room.
Daniel asked them to sit.
He told them he loved them.
He told them he was proud of them.
He told them that nothing about the divorce had been their fault.
The older child asked whether he had ever stopped wanting to be their father.
Daniel looked shocked.
“Never.”
“Even when you lived alone?”
“Especially then.”
The younger one leaned against him.
“Then you should have told us.”
Daniel nodded.
“I should have.”
He didn't try to make the answer softer.
He let it stand.
The children stayed until evening.
When it was time to go, Daniel asked them to come back.
They promised.
I didn't know whether they understood how uncertain the next days might be.
I didn't want to frighten them with guesses.
I wanted them to have the truth as we knew it, not a future we couldn't predict.
Outside the room, the older child asked me whether Dad was getting worse.
I stopped walking.
“The doctors are worried,” I said. “He's very unwell.”
“Could he die?”
The question was direct.
I felt my throat tighten.
“Yes. That is possible.”
The younger child took my hand.
I held it.
“But we don't know exactly when,” I continued. “We can visit him. We can talk to him. We can tell him what we want him to know.”
The older child nodded.
“Then I want to go again tomorrow.”
“We will.”
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I thought about the letter.
The notebook.
The photograph.
The shopping list.
I thought about all the ordinary things Daniel had kept because he couldn't bear to throw them away.
I also thought about all the ordinary things he had missed because he believed he had no right to return.
The next morning, I went to the hospital before the children.
Daniel was awake.
He looked at me and smiled faintly.
“I was hoping you'd come.”
“I said I would.”
He moved his hand toward the chair.
I sat.
For a while, we listened to the quiet sounds of the room.
Then he said, “I don't want you to spend the rest of your life feeling that you owe me something.”
I looked at him.
“I don't.”
“Good.”
“You don't owe me a perfect ending either.”
He smiled weakly.
“I know.”
“I just want the truth.”
“You have it.”
I held his hand.
And for the first time, I believed that he understood what I had been asking for all along.
Click here to continue reading: PART 20: THE CALL I WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER
The Wednesday Night Daniel Told Me There Was Someone Else, and I Realized Our Marriage Was Already Over
Part 19 of 20
