Hearing him admit he was afraid made the truth feel more real than any diagnosis had.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this without you.”
“You don’t have to know yet.”
“And what if I never figure it out?”
He thought for a moment.
“Then you’ll make it up as you go.”
I gave him a miserable look.
“That might be the worst advice you’ve ever given me.”
“It’s the most truthful advice I’ve got.”
I hated him a little for saying it.
Mostly because I knew he was right.
By the time I entered my eighth month of pregnancy, Mark was becoming weaker much faster than we had expected.
One morning, I found him standing in front of the bedroom mirror trying to button his shirt.
His fingers were trembling.
“Give me that,” I said.
“I can do it.”
“You put the third button into the fourth hole.”
He looked down at himself.
