“Did you know?”
Wade closed his eyes.
“I knew he was considering divorce. He told me the summer before your diagnosis.”
“I was afraid of making things harder while you were sick.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I told him to talk to you. I thought he would.”
“But when he left, you still didn’t tell me?”
“No. I was afraid of making things harder while you were sick.”
“You knew I thought it was because of the cancer.”
He nodded.
The papers inside the box told their own story.
“I should’ve told you what I knew. I’m sorry.”
“You helped me when I could barely get through a day,” I said. “But you should’ve let me decide what truth I could handle.”
Wade lowered his eyes.
“You’re right.”
The papers inside the box told their own story.
An apartment application dated seven months before my diagnosis. Rental prices. Statements for an account I’d never seen.
