Back home, our two children clung to their father while he pretended everything was fine.
I pretended too.
But some nights, I caught him staring at the ceiling, his eyes glassy with something heavier than pain.
He pretended everything was fine.
« What is it, David? » I asked one evening, curling against his thin shoulder. « Talk to me. »
« I’m just tired, my love. »
« You’re keeping something from me. I can feel it. »
He turned his face toward the wall.
« Please. Just let me hold you tonight. »
Three weeks into hospice care, he asked me something shocking.
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