“At first, I didn’t think it would help her treatment. Dad was dead. Amanda was already fighting enough.”
“At first?”
He looked at me.
That was the problem.
At first, I could almost understand.
Then Amanda improved.
Andrew left her care.
They met again.
He asked her out.
He fell in love with her.
He proposed.
He married her.
At every one of those points, “at first” became something else.
“I was going to tell her before our first date,” he admitted.
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Before you proposed?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“Before the wedding?”
His eyes closed.
“Yes.”
I picked up the photograph I’d knocked crooked and put it back.
“Why?”
“Because every time I waited, telling her became worse.”
“That’s not an answer, Andrew.”
“I was afraid she’d look at me and see him.”
“And?”
“And I love her.”
“That doesn’t make this better.”
