I drive us home because Katya is bawling. I hold her hand as I drive.
Just a few months ago, she held me together when I cried.
None of this is easy. But we have each other.
“She doesn’t have long,” Katya whimpers, clutching my hand like it’s a lifeline.
“I know,” I whisper.
“It’s fucking unfair.”
I drive, focusing on the road, keeping the tears at bay. She gets to fall apart now. It’s her turn.
“But you know what? I have you.”
“Always,” I vow.
That night, after Katya goes to bed early and I’m curled up on the couch with a cup of chamomile tea I’m not even sipping, Aiden’s text pings in.
Aiden:How are you? How is Anya?
I’d told him that I couldn’t see him on Saturday because we would be going to see Anya. I’d waited for him to say something rude, but he hadn’t; instead, he’d been kind. That had only annoyed me more.
I stare at the screen for a minute.
Me:Once when I wanted to see her, you said she isn’t even my mother, and some stupid lunch thing your mother was having was more important.
It’s not his fault that Anya is dying. It isn’t anyone’s fault, but grief needs somewhere to land, and I keep wanting to throw it at him. He’s an easy target these days. He’s screwed up enough in the past that I can always reach back, pull out one of his old crimes, and lay it at his feet like proof that he’s the problem—even when he isn’t.
I close my eyes, feeling foolish and small.
What the hell am I doing? Why am I hurting Aiden? I love him. Still. Hurting him doesn’t make me feel better.
Aiden:I am so sorry for putting my family before yours. How is Anya?
I can’t keep doing this, throwing his sins at him. If I’m done with him, I should let him go, not keep hitting him because I’m hurt and angry. It’s unfair. And it’s wrong. And most importantly, it’s not who I am.
Just yesterday, I was listening to a podcast by a marriage counselor, and she said something that has stayed with me.
Cheating isn’t the cause of a broken marriage—it’s a symptom. It often reveals underlying disconnection, unmet needs, or emotional distance that already existed. The affair doesn’t destroy the relationship; it exposes what was already eroding.
I was complicit in the erosion of our marriage. My needs were going unmet because I didn’t voice them. I smiled through bullshit. He didn’t even know I was hurting.
The phone rings.
“I’m sorry,” I say without preamble. “I’m being unfair to you. I keep saying things and…I just….”
“Baby, it’s okay. I fucked up so much that it’s natural that you have…anger inside of you. I’d much rather you said whatever you felt, whenever you felt it, and know that it only reminds me of my wrongs, and makes me want to do and be better.”
Oh God! Here is the man I married. The man I love. The man who knows me, who loves me.
“She’s dying, Aiden.” I break, sobbing.
“Oh, baby.”
His voice is so gentle, I know there’s no agenda behind it. Just care.
“She’s not in pain. That’s something,” I choke out. “But it still hurts.”
