On the way back, he said, “I think I need to tell you something.”
I stopped.
My body tensed automatically.
He noticed.
“Not a secret.”
“That sentence is not reassuring anymore.”
“Fair.”
We resumed walking.
“My therapist asked what I would do if you left.”
I looked at him.
“And?”
“I told her I would fall apart.”
A cold knot formed in my chest.
“Daniel—”
“Then she asked what I would do after that.”
I waited.
“I didn’t have an answer.”
He looked toward our house.
“So I spent all week thinking about it.”
“And?”
“I’d go to therapy.”
A small smile appeared.
“I’d eat terribly for several months. Nora would probably bully me into buying vegetables.”
“Accurate.”
“I’d miss you.”
He swallowed.
“I’d regret what I did.”
His voice became quiet.
“But I’d live.”
I didn’t understand why that sentence affected me so strongly.
Perhaps because for years, whether either of us recognized it or not, Daniel had made me responsible for preventing his distress.
