“And if it doesn’t work?”
“What does that mean?”
“Then we end it honestly, Theo.”
His eyes dropped.
“You could still decide I’m not enough.”
I leaned forward.
“Theo, I almost divorced you because I stopped feeling seen. Then cancer made you need me so much that I confused being necessary with being loved.”
“Then we end it honestly, Theo.”
He looked at me.
“I’m never doing that again.”
“Do you still love me?”
“Yes. But love doesn’t get to make every decision anymore. I do.”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he nodded. “Okay.”
“I’m never doing that again.”
I pulled the dessert toward me.
For years, I’d measured my worth by how much I could carry.
That night, nothing needed carrying.
Theo wasn’t my patient.
I wasn’t his rescuer.
That night, nothing needed carrying.
And if we chose each other again, it wouldn’t be because cancer, guilt, fear, or 11 years of history had cornered us into it.
