Marcus looked at her. You told me about him before. He said on the phone. But not like that. Like what?
Like you were deciding whether to be angry or not. She looked at him for a long moment. I think I was, she said. Deciding. I mean, she folded the paper bag once precisely.
I'm not angry anymore. I thought I would be for longer, but mostly I just I feel like I lost time. 4 Years with him, then 3 years being careful. That's 7 years of she stopped. You know what I was doing 7 years ago?
Tell me. I was 31. I had just gotten my care coordinator certification. I was in the best shape of my life. I had this She stopped again and this time there was something in her voice that hadn't been there before.
Something that was working to stay even. I had this belief that things were going to work out. Like a real belief, not hope, not wishful thinking, just certainty that I was on the right road and the right things were coming. She looked at her hands. I don't have that anymore.
You will, Marcus said. She shook her head slightly. You don't know that. No, he said. But I had it once and lost it, and it came back different.
Not the same, but real. He paused. It comes back different, but it comes back. She looked at him. When did you lose it?
She asked. When Renee got the diagnosis, he said, "Stage three." The doctor used words I didn't understand, and I sat there nodding like I did. And then I drove home and sat us in the driveway for 45 minutes because I couldn't figure out how to walk inside and look at my my wife and my daughter and hold all of it at the same time. Olivia said nothing. She was very still.
"It came back," Marcus said slow. "It looked different. I didn't have that feeling of certainty anymore." "Exactly. More like commitment. Like I couldn't promise good things were coming, but I could promise I was going to keep showing up until they did.
She was looking at him with an expression he couldn't immediately read. Not sympathy. Something deeper than that. You never stopped, she said. Did you?
No, he said. Stopping wasn't on the table. She looked back at her hands. I think I stopped, she said quietly. Not with work, not with family, but for myself.