One afternoon, I stood outside and heard Grace crying.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she whispered.
“You have to,” David replied. “Only a little longer.”
“Every time she looks at me, I feel like I’m lying.”
“She deserves to hear it from me.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I’m trying.”
I stepped away before they opened the door.
At dinner that evening, I placed a bowl of broth in front of David.
“What were you and Grace discussing?”
He stared into the bowl.
“Nothing important.”
“Do not do that.”
His eyes lifted.
“Do what?”
“Make me feel foolish for asking an obvious question.”
Grace stopped moving at the sink.
“There is something between the two of you,” I continued. “I deserve to know what it is.”
David’s face tightened.
“Later.”
I laughed without humor.
“Later when? You are dying.”
Grace lowered her head.
David reached toward me.
“I promise you will understand.”
Over the following weeks, I heard that word so many times that it became meaningless.
Later.
It became a locked door.
A shield he raised whenever I came close to the truth.
