The envelope had been tucked inside Rebecca’s battered paperback copy of the novel I had recommended.
It was still sealed.
My name written across the front.
“Open it,” Daniel said.
I looked at him.
“No.”
He seemed surprised.
“Not yet.”
For once, curiosity wasn’t enough.
Everything in my life had become an unopened envelope.
My diagnosis.
My marriage.
Daniel’s grief.
Even my own feelings.
I didn’t need another answer that day.
I needed one decision that belonged entirely to me.
“I want you to find a therapist,” I said.
Daniel blinked.
“All right.”
“Not for us.”
He swallowed.
“For you.”
“Yes.”
“And I want separate bedrooms for now.”
Pain crossed his face.
He nodded.
“And no checking me.”
“Of course.”
“Not even asking repeatedly how my stomach feels.”
“All right.”
“If I want to tell you something medical, I’ll tell you.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him closely.
“Can you actually do that?”
