“My wife,” he replied.
At the appointment, I listened while he spoke with his doctor. We learned that the affected area had been treated, though he would need regular skin examinations and follow-ups.
On the drive home, he thanked me for letting him speak for himself.
That evening, he finally explained why he’d kept his diagnosis secret.
He remembered how exhausted I’d been while caring for my sick mother, juggling work, appointments, and endless responsibilities. He’d once found me crying on the kitchen floor after becoming overwhelmed.
“When the doctor said cancer, I kept thinking about that day,” he admitted. “I thought keeping quiet would protect you.”
I took his hand.
“I understand why you were afraid,” I told him. “But you don’t get to decide what I can handle without giving me a chance.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I didn’t know how to tell you.”
