Part 3: Company, Not a Fixer
I remembered before he even finished.
I’d been caring for her, working, barely sleeping, tracking appointments and medications. Then I forgot to return a library book.
That tiny mistake cracked me wide open.
“I remember.”
“When they said cancer, that’s what I saw.”
“Me on the floor?”
He nodded.
“You were exhausted. You were grieving. I couldn’t get that picture out of my head. I thought I was protecting you.”
“I believe you. That doesn’t make what you did okay.”
He looked down.
“You took one of the worst moments of my life and decided it was the only version of me you could trust.”
“Nathan didn’t ask 20 questions,” he said. “He just sat there. I needed that, Cyn.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“I didn’t know how.”
“Then you should’ve been bad at it.”
He looked up.
“Bad at what?”
“Being scared with me. Saying the wrong thing. Letting me be scared too.”
The next morning, Conor sat at the table and sighed.
I knew that sigh meant coffee.
I kept eating.
“What do you need?”
“Coffee.”
“Then ask me.”
He blinked. “I thought I just did.”
“You sighed and expected me to make it. That’s not the same thing.”
He studied me.
“Would you get me some coffee, Cynthia?”
“Yes.”
A few days later, Conor came into the kitchen on his crutches.
“I have another appointment on Thursday. Will you come?”
Every instinct in me wanted to start planning.
Instead, I asked, “Do you want your wife there, or someone to take notes?”
“My wife.”
So I went.
At the appointment, questions crowded my mouth before Conor had even finished his first one.
I held them back.
He glanced at me. “You had something to ask.”
“Do you want your wife there?”
“I do. But you go first.”
He asked what he needed to know. I listened.
When he finished, he looked at me.
“Anything?”
“One thing.”
I asked it and left it there.
The doctor said the area had been treated, but Conor would still need regular skin checks and follow-up.
Relief arrived quietly: no new crisis, only the truth I should have been allowed to face with him.
In the car, Conor said, “Thank you.”
“For coming?”
“For not taking over.”
I let the sting sit.
A few days later, Tilly came over.
I looked at Conor.
“We’re not skipping what happened here.”
He looked up.
Tilly went still.
Conor nodded.
“Tilly, I shouldn’t have asked you to keep that from your mother.”
“I thought I was helping you, Dad.”
“You were. But I put you in the middle.”
She looked at me.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“I understand why.”
Then I looked at both of them.
“But neither of you gets to decide what I can handle for me.”
After Tilly left, Conor asked, “What do you want from me now?”
“I want a husband. Not a protector who shuts me out.”
He nodded.
“And if I make it hard for you to be scared around me, tell me. I’ll work on that.”
I took his hand.
“But don’t lie to me and call it love.”
Several weeks later, the cast was gone.
Conor sat beside me.
“I’m worried about the next follow-up.”
The old questions rose automatically.
I let them pass.
“Do you want help, or do you want company?”
“Company.”
He reached for my hand, then stopped halfway, as if unsure he was still allowed. I closed the distance myself.
His fingers tightened around mine, not hard, just enough to tell me he was scared and trying anyway.
So I stayed.
After a minute, he looked down at his leg.
“You can touch it now, you know.”
“I know.”
I rested my hand over the place where the scar disappeared beneath his jeans.
I was still angry about what he’d taken from me.
I was still grateful he was okay.
Both things could be true.
He didn’t pull away.
This time, I wasn’t reaching because Conor needed me to fix something.
He had asked for company.
And I finally understood the difference.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
