“Of me?”
“Of losing the chance.”
“What chance?”
“To have a normal life.”
That caught me off guard.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’ve spent eleven years telling myself the next year would be easier. After residency. After the promotion. After we paid off this. After Olive got older.”
He rubbed his face.
“And then one day I realized I was still saying ‘after.'”
I didn’t answer.
“I missed her science fair last year.”
“You had surgery.”
“I know.”
“You saved someone’s life.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you look guilty?”
“Because I also missed Olive looking for me in the audience.”
That silenced me.
He looked at the floor.
“I don’t want to be the father who is always arriving after the important part.”
I sat down.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I thought you’d tell me the move was too risky.”
“Maybe I would’ve.”
“I know.”
“And maybe I would’ve said no.”
“I know.”
“Maybe I would’ve asked you to find another hospital.”
“I know.”
“Then you should’ve let me.”
He nodded.
“I should have.”
That night, I asked him to sleep in the guest room.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Because I needed silence.
