He looked at me.
“I was hiding how scared I was.”
That sentence broke me.
I sat beside him.
For the first time, I realized what I’d been seeing every night.
Not a secret affair.
Not betrayal.
A father terrified that his little girl might have something seriously wrong with her.
Still, I was angry.
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“Because every time she had an episode, you were exhausted.”
He swallowed.
“You were working, taking care of the house, taking care of Emma. I thought if I could handle the nights, you’d be able to function.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“And the 3:17?”
He nodded.
“That’s when most of her episodes happened.”
I remembered all those nights.
All the times I’d awakened alone.
All the times I’d wondered why my husband was choosing our daughter’s room over me.
I thought he was leaving me.
He had actually been sitting beside our daughter, counting every second of her seizures.
Then Evan handed me one final envelope.
“There’s something else.”
I opened it.
Inside was a letter from a financial counselor.
I read the first paragraph.
Then the second.
My hands began shaking.
“Evan…”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“This says you sold your motorcycle.”
He nodded.
“And your investment account?”
“Most of it.”
“You withdrew money from your retirement savings?”
He looked away.
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