It was a signed hospital pledge form. Tessa had taken a loan against her future wages, put the money toward my treatment fund, and opened an account in my name at St. Anne’s. The cash was her tuition savings, which she had emptied. She had also asked her estranged father, whom she had not spoken to in four years, for help. He refused, and she had spent the six days on a bus across the state to beg her late mother’s sister for the rest. That was why she told me not to call.

I broke down. I confessed everything, the lie, the doubt, and the test. I expected her to leave. Instead, she sat very still, and a single tear slid down her cheek. “I knew,” she said softly. “Your mother called me on day three. She said she was ashamed of what you were doing, and she told me the truth. I came anyway, because I wanted to see how far I would go for you, and I would have gone further.”

She slid the ring from her finger, the one I had given her for her birthday, and set it beside the cash. “I love you, but I cannot be tested,” she said. “Love that needs proof is not love.” I begged. I knelt on the floor and promised everything I owned. She stood and said she needed time, and that I should use the money to pay her tuition debt. Then she walked out of the door and into the rain.

I paid every cent and more, and I went to counseling. A year later, she agreed to have coffee. Two years after that, she said yes when I asked again, this time with no tests, no secrets, and no lies. We have never kept a financial secret since. On our wedding day, she wore the old bankbook pinned inside her bouquet, and I wore the rubber band around my wrist.