And then something in him gave way, and his arms came around me, and he pulled me in and held me so tightly that I could feel the ragged, desperate rise and fall of his chest against mine, could feel six months of held breath finally releasing, could feel the weight he had been carrying alone begin, at last, to be shared.

“You stupid, brave, wonderful man,” I said into his collar, half sobbing and half laughing.

“You beautiful idiot.

Did you honestly believe that?

Did you really think I only loved you for what your hands could do in an operating room?

Did you think that was what our marriage was made of?”

He pressed his face into my hair and I felt him weeping, silently, the way strong men weep when they have run out of the strength to hold it in any longer.

“I was so scared, Clara,” he whispered against me, and his voice was the voice of a frightened child, not a famous surgeon.