I want to tell you I understood, kneeling beside that hospice bed, that his sacrifice had been noble. That I accepted why he had kept the truth from me, and that we spent his final months in perfect peace. That is the ending people want. It is not the truth. Beneath my grief was rage. For eight months, my husband had known his hands were failing, yet he kept working with other people’s children while hiding the diagnosis from the wife who would have given anything to face it beside him. He had decided I was too fragile for the truth. After thirteen years together, he had made a choice for both of us.

I finally told him exactly how deeply that hurt. One evening outside the hospice, I told him he had stolen eight months from us. His secret had allowed him to die believing he was protecting everyone, but it had denied me the chance to be his partner. I expected him to defend himself. Instead, he cried and admitted I was right. That somehow hurt even more. We still had months ahead of us, but they would not be the peaceful ending people imagined. Some days were filled with tenderness. Others were filled with anger, guilt, and grief, and I began to wonder whether I could ever understand why he had chosen to face the darkness alone   Click continue reading below for Part2