At the hospital, the doctor explained everything calmly.
His heart was weak.
The surgery had saved his life years ago, but the damage remained.
Stress was dangerous.
Strong emotions too.
He needed rest.
Medication.
Care.
On the drive home, neither of us spoke much.
The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable.
It was frightened.
That night, Manuel sat on the edge of the bed without looking at me.
—I almost didn’t marry you.
I frowned.
—Why?
He swallowed hard.
—Because I knew this could happen.
I sat beside him quietly.
—I didn’t want you to become a nurse for an old sick man.
His voice cracked slightly.
—I already stole forty years from us. I didn’t want to steal the little time you had left too.
The sadness in his eyes hurt me more than anything.
Because I finally understood something.
Manuel wasn’t afraid of dying.
