Mark grew weaker much faster than any of us expected.

By my eighth month, I was helping him button his shirts.

Sometimes he had to stop halfway to the bathroom, one hand against the wall, just to catch his breath.

I tried not to stare at those moments, tried not to let him see how frightened they made me, tried to move naturally to his side as though I had been heading that way anyway.

We both knew what was happening.

There was no hiding it from each other; there never had been anything we could hide from each other.