So he created a story in which I was the problem.
And every time I believed him, he felt safer.
“I thought if we never saw a doctor, nobody would ever know,” he said.
“But I knew,” I replied. “I lived with the shame every day.”
He covered his face.
“I know.”
“No. You know now that I have evidence. That’s different.”
He looked up at me.
“Can you forgive me?”
For a moment, I remembered the young man who had brought me strawberry cake. I remembered the wedding, the promises, the dreams we had shared.
I also remembered the woman sitting on the bathroom floor, crying over another negative pregnancy test.
I remembered the pain in my abdomen and the fear that had stopped me from seeking medical help.
And I remembered every night he had made me repeat words I no longer believed.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
