“That might be the worst advice you’ve ever given me.”
“It’s the most truthful advice I’ve got.”
I hated him a little for saying it.
Mostly because I knew he was right.
By the time I entered my eighth month of pregnancy, Mark was becoming weaker much faster than we had expected.
One morning, I found him standing in front of the bedroom mirror trying to button his shirt.
His fingers were trembling.
“Give me that,” I said.
“I can do it.”
“You put the third button into the fourth hole.”
He looked down at himself.
“New fashion.”
“You look like an accordion that gave up halfway.”
He laughed softly.
I stepped in front of him and redid the buttons.
His hands had begun shaking more often. I tried not to notice.
I failed.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to memorize me.”
