By the eighth month of my pregnancy, he struggled with simple tasks. One morning, I found him standing in front of the bedroom mirror, trying to button his shirt.
“You’ve put the wrong button through the wrong hole,” I told him.
He looked down.
“It’s a new fashion trend.”
I laughed despite myself.
But his hands were trembling.
I helped him finish getting dressed, trying not to show how frightened I was.
He noticed anyway.
“Stop looking at me like you’re trying to memorize my face,” he said.
I froze.
“I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
I swallowed hard.
“I want to remember everything so I can tell our daughter about you.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he took my hand.
“I want you to remember that I loved both of you more than anything.”
Around that time, Mark began having private conversations with his doctor, Dr. Rivers.
At first, I didn’t think much of it.
But after several meetings, my curiosity grew.
“What are you two discussing?” I asked one afternoon.
“Something I need to arrange.”
“Without me?”
“For now.”
I stared at him.
“That sounds suspicious.”
He smiled faintly.
“Please trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
“Then let me take care of this.”
I agreed.
I didn’t realize how important those conversations would become.
A few weeks later, Mark passed away.
