“Why didn’t you tell me before we married?”
“Because I didn’t want you to marry me out of pity. I wanted you to marry me because you loved me.”
I squeezed his hand. “Charles, I didn’t marry you out of pity. I married you because I love you. Because you make me feel like life is still worth living.”
He looked up. “The doctors told me it could stay stable for years if I was careful. I truly believed I had time. But…”
“No arguments,” I said firmly. “You’re getting that surgery. We’re going to fight this. Together.”
He pulled me into his arms and cried. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Well, you’re stuck with me now,” I said.
Over the next weeks, I prepared Charles for surgery.
I researched his condition, talked to doctors, made sure he ate well and took his medication. The kids rallied around us. My granddaughter held his hand and said, “You have to get better, Grandpa Charles. You promised to teach me chess.”
He smiled. “I will, sweetheart. I promise.”
On the day of surgery, I sat in the waiting room for six hours. Finally, the doctor came out. “The surgery went well. He’s stable.”
Two months later, Charles and I visited Conan’s grave together. We brought daisies, Conan’s favorite. I placed them on the headstone.
“I miss you,” I whispered. “Every day. But I’m okay now. And I think you’d be happy about that.”
Charles stood beside me, his hand in mine.
Love didn’t replace what I lost. It carried it forward. And sometimes, that’s the greatest gift grief can give you.
Source: amomama.com
