One afternoon, he admitted he was nervous about his next follow-up appointment.
Instead of asking a dozen questions, I asked, “Would you like help making a plan, or would you rather I just sit with you?”
He smiled.
“Just stay with me.”
So I took his hand.
Looking at the fading scar, he said softly, “You can touch it now.”
I rested my hand gently against his leg. This time, he didn’t pull away.
I was still hurt that he’d kept such an important secret from me, and grateful that he was recovering. Both feelings could exist together.
After thirty-two years of marriage, I’d believed love meant anticipating someone’s needs and finding solutions.
Now I understood that love wasn’t always about fixing things.
Sometimes, it meant listening, allowing someone to be frightened, and facing uncertainty together.
That afternoon, Conor didn’t need me to solve anything.
