“You don’t have to carry this alone for one more minute.

Let me have a turn.

Please.

It’s my turn now.

Let me take care of you.”

For a long moment he could not speak.

And then he nodded, just barely, his hand still pressed against my face, his eyes closed and streaming, and I felt the last of the wall between us come down.

Six months of secrecy, six months of him getting up every morning and performing a health he did not have, six months of turning falling pages with his good hand and grieving alone in the dark, all of it ended there, in that garden, with my husband finally, finally letting himself be held.