She offered a small, sad smile.
“Because you were already leaving.”
That truth hurt more than any accusation ever could.
She explained that she no longer had reliable insurance, that treatments were expensive, and that she’d been navigating fear and appointments alone. With every word, the version of myself I had tried to forgive felt smaller and more cowardly.
“You shouldn’t be here by yourself,” I said.
“I’m not asking you to stay,” she replied softly. “I just didn’t expect to see you.”
“I’m staying anyway.”
She studied me carefully.
“Because you feel guilty?”
“Because I still love you.”
And for the first time since we separated, I knew it was true.
From that day on, I became part of her life again — sitting through appointments, bringing meals she could manage, learning how to sit with discomfort instead of running from it, learning how to listen without trying to fix everything.
One afternoon, as rain slid down the hospital window, she spoke again, barely above a whisper.
“I found out I was pregnant before I got sick.”
My breath caught.
“I lost it early,” she said. “I didn’t want to put you through that again.”
Tears finally broke free.
“You didn’t have to protect me from loving you.”
She took my hand.
“I thought letting you go was the kindest thing I could do.”
The treatments were brutal, harder than either of us had imagined — but something remarkable happened.
Her body began to respond.
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