“I know.”
“And I’m probably going to be angry for a while.”
He nodded.
Then I reached across the console and took his hand.
“But I’m also going to be here.”
He looked at me.
“For the appointments. The difficult days. Everything.”
My voice shook.
“You don’t get to carry this alone anymore, Mark. Not one more day.”
His fingers tightened around mine.
—
Part 4: One More Wedding
We told Sophie that Saturday.
She drove home from university, and we sat together at the kitchen table.
Mark tried reading from an index card he’d prepared.
But his hands shook too much.
So I explained the diagnosis while he held our daughter’s hand.
At first, Sophie didn’t cry.
She asked questions.
Detailed nursing-student questions.
About treatment.
Memory testing.
Medical evaluations.
What the doctors expected.
She wrote down the answers carefully.
Then, suddenly, she stopped.
She set down her pen.
