“They weren’t convinced about the diagnosis. They repeated everything. More scans. More tests. More opinions.”
“And?”
“They found out the first diagnosis had been wrong.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“My condition was real, but it wasn’t what they thought.”
He managed the smallest smile.
“It was treatable.”
I sat back down on my bed.
“I don’t understand.”
“They started treatment almost immediately. It wasn’t easy. There were setbacks. But slowly… I got better.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“So why didn’t you come back?”
He laughed bitterly.
“How could I? What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi, Natalie. Remember when I destroyed our marriage because I thought I was dying? Good news. I might not be anymore?'”
He shook his head.
“I’d already broken your heart. I figured you’d finally be healing. I couldn’t rip the wound open again.”
“So instead, you stayed away.”
He nodded.
“Every birthday. Every Christmas. Every anniversary. I wanted to call. I picked up my phone dozens of times. I always put it back down.”
I remembered every holiday I had cried myself to sleep.
Every special date that had passed in silence.
“I hated you,” I admitted.
“I know.”
“I had to.”
“I know.”
