He had lost his job after missing too many days to drive me to appointments. Since then, he had been working two shifts at a warehouse across town, from five in the morning until late afternoon, then delivering groceries at night. He hadn’t slept more than five hours a night in months. That was why he came home exhausted and snapping. He wrote that he hid the bills because he didn’t want me worrying while I was still learning to live in the dark.

The thing he slid under the bed the night before was the newest bill, from my eye doctor. He wrote that he had no idea how he would keep paying, but that he would sell his truck, his tools, anything, before he let me stop treatment. The letter ended with one line. I would carry you for another hundred years, but I miss you seeing me. I read it four times.

When Colby came home that evening, I was waiting at the door. I looked straight into his eyes, still blurry but clear enough, and said, “You look tired.” He froze. Then he dropped his keys and cried harder than I had ever heard a grown man cry. He kept touching my face like he couldn’t believe it. We sat on the kitchen floor for an hour while I told him everything, and he finally told me the rest.

We called the hospital’s financial counselor together that week, and they cut nearly half the debt through a hardship program. My sister organized a fundraiser at her church. Colby found a new engineering job in the spring, and I started back part-time at the library once my eyes caught up. Our arguments stopped almost overnight. We don’t hide things from each other anymore. And every morning now, I watch him leave, and he waves back.