We were happy. I want you to understand that. We were really, truly happy.
My husband thrived in his career.
He got more and more specialized as the years went on. Complex optic nerve reconstruction. He started publishing papers. He traveled to conferences in Germany and Japan. He got a research position at the university hospital, on top of his surgical practice.
He worked so hard.
He spent long nights in his home office, the little room at the end of the hall. He kept the door closed. I’d hear his chair creak, and papers rustling, and sometimes his voice murmuring as he read something to himself out loud.
I would wake up at two a.m. and reach across the bed, only to find it empty and cold.
“Stay in bed,” I’d mumble when he finally slid under the covers.
“I’m close,” he’d whisper, pulling me against him. “I’m so close to something big.”
