“So you just never told me,” I said.
“Every year, I told myself I’d tell you. On our anniversary. On your birthday. After Ethan was born. After Rose was born.” His voice broke completely. “Every year, it got harder. Every year, there was more to lose.”
“The night before the surgery,” I said. “When I asked what you were afraid of.”
“I was afraid of this,” he said. “Of this exact moment. Of you opening your eyes and seeing my face and remembering.”
“That’s why you didn’t sound happy at the hospital.”
“I gave you back your sight,” he said. “And I knew it would cost me you.”
I looked down at the research spread across his desk again.
Twenty-seven years of work. Twenty-seven years of notes and sketches and failed trials. Rats and journals and sleepless nights. Crying in this room at three in the morning, and telling me it was nothing.
