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« I already decided, » I said. « You are. You always have been. I need you to actually let me prove that instead of making the decision on my behalf and calling it protection. »
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We didn’t finalize any divorce paperwork that day. We went home instead, and spent most of that night talking more honestly than we had in the entire fourteen months of treatment combined, working through exactly what Li-Fraumeni syndrome would actually mean for our lives going forward — more frequent screenings, a considerably more vigilant relationship with every ache and unusual symptom, genetic counseling to understand the full scope of what we were actually facing.
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Griffin apologized properly the following week, once we’d both had time to process everything without the raw shock of that first day still clouding every sentence.
« I should have told you the moment I found out, » he said. « I let three weeks of fear convince me that deciding for you was somehow kinder than trusting you with the truth. »
