Colby had been fired after missing too many workdays driving me to medical appointments. Instead of telling me, he’d taken two shifts at a warehouse across town, starting at five every morning, then delivered groceries at night. For months, he’d survived on less than five hours of sleep. Suddenly, his exhaustion and short temper made sense. He’d hidden everything because he didn’t want me worrying while I was learning to live without my sight.

The paper he’d hurriedly pushed beneath our bed the previous night was another bill from my eye specialist. Colby wrote that he didn’t know how he’d continue paying, but he’d sell his truck, his tools—anything—before allowing me to stop treatment. Then I reached the final sentence: “I would carry you for another hundred years, but I miss you seeing me.” I read those words four times. That evening, when I heard Colby’s keys at the front door, I was already waiting for him.