Five months after finishing chemotherapy, I secretly booked the same mountain hotel where Jeffrey and I had spent our honeymoon twenty years earlier. I bought a new dress, hoping for one weekend when I could feel like his wife again instead of someone he had to care for. Then we opened the room and Jeffrey froze at the sight of the single king-size bed. His hands tightened around his suitcase before he said, “I need another room.” By 11:30 that night, I was crying into my pillow, convinced my scars and changed body had finally become too much for him. Then Jeffrey knocked. His eyes were red, his shirt was buttoned all the way to his throat, and he whispered, “There’s something I’ve been hiding from you since your third round of chemo.”
PART 3
The moment the door closed, every fear I had fought since chemotherapy came rushing back.
Of course Jeffrey had stayed while I was sick. What kind of husband leaves his wife while she is fighting cancer?
But now I was recovering.
Maybe he no longer had to pretend.
I sat on the edge of the huge bed and thought about my short hair, the scars, the loose skin, and the body I still struggled to recognize. Maybe the months of being my caregiver had destroyed whatever romantic feelings Jeffrey once had for me.
Around nine, he knocked on my door.
“Want to get dinner?”
When I opened it, he was wearing another oversized shirt buttoned high around his neck.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Do I?”
We ate downstairs, but Jeffrey talked about everything except the second hotel room.
By the time dessert arrived, I couldn’t stand pretending.
“I’m tired. I’m going upstairs.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“Don’t.”
I returned alone, crawled beneath the blanket, and cried into the pillow.
I became convinced our marriage was ending.
At 11:30, someone knocked.
Jeffrey stood outside with red eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Finally admitting you can’t stand looking at me?”
His expression changed instantly.
“What?”
“Just tell me the truth. I saw your face when you looked at that bed. I know I’m not the woman you married anymore.”
Jeffrey stepped inside and quietly locked the door behind him.
“I didn’t get another room because I didn’t want to be with you.”
“Then why? Is it because I lost my hair? Because of the scars?”
“Stop.”
His voice shook.
“Please stop talking about yourself like that.”
“Then explain it.”
He stood silently for several seconds.
“There’s something I’ve been hiding from you since your third round of chemo.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
Jeffrey slowly began unbuttoning his shirt.
The first button.
Then the second.
His fingers were trembling.
“Jeffrey, you’re frightening me.”
“Just let me do this. If I stop now, I won’t tell you.”
When he finally opened the shirt, I gasped.