“How much?”
She swallowed.
“Enough that I could die.”
I felt the ground disappear beneath me.
“When did you find out?”
She closed her eyes.
“Eight months ago.”
Eight months.
“You’ve known for eight months?”
“I tried to tell you.”
“When?”
“Every time you talked about teaching our son to ride a bike.”
“Every time you pointed at the spare bedroom and called it the nursery.”
“Every time you imagined children with my eyes.”
Those had been our dreams.
At least I thought they were.
My mind raced toward solutions.
“There are specialists.”
“We could adopt.”
“We have options.”
“Harry.”
“I’m trying to fix this.”
She shook her head.
“I’m not something that needs fixing.”
Only then did I realize what I had failed to ask.
I never asked whether she was frightened.
I never asked what she wanted.
I only reacted to what I feared losing.
