**Diary Entry 18th June**
I was tidying up my daughters room this morning when I saw something I shouldnt have. Her phone was left on the desk, the screen still lit with an open chatbetween her and my husband, James. I never meant to pry, but the words leapt out at me: *»Dad, you have to tell Mum. She deserves to know.»*
My hands went numb. Deserves to know *what*?
I scrolled up before I could stop myself. Three months of messages unfoldedJames complaining of stomach pains, tests, whispers of *»oncologist»* and *»biopsy.»* My breath caught. All this time, hed been hiding ithiding *fear*. To spare me, he said. After Mums stroke last year, Id been a wreck, and he couldnt bear to see me like that again. So he carried it alone, even as the weight hollowed him out.
Olivia found me sitting on her bed, the phone trembling in my hands. Her face fell. *»Mum»*
*»Is it cancer?»* I asked, voice steadier than I felt.
She crumpled beside me, confessing everything: the appointments, the waiting, the biopsy scheduled for tomorrow at St. Georges. James had sworn her to secrecy. *»He was terrified of worrying you,»* she whispered.
I wanted to be furious. Instead, I just felt sick. All those nights hed come home late, eyes skittering away from mineId assumed the worst. Another woman. But the truth was worse in a different way.
When James came home that evening, the dining table was set with roast beef, his favourite. He eyed it warily. *»Special occasion?»*
*»No,»* I said, pouring him a glass of wine. *»Just realised weve been married too long for secrets.»* His fork clattered against the plate. *»Im coming with you tomorrow. To St. Georges.»*
The colour drained from his face. Olivia stared at her lap. For a long moment, the only sound was the clock ticking in the hall. Then his shoulders sagged, and he whispered, *»Im sorry.»*
The apology wasnt for the illness. It was for the silence. For the walls hed built, thinking theyd protect me.
We sat up late that night, talking properly for the first time in months. He admitted how exhausting it had beenthe lies, the pills tucked away in his briefcase, the dread of every test result. *»I didnt want you to see me weak,»* he murmured.
*»Weak?»* I cupped his face. *»James, youve been my rock for twenty-five years. Let me be yours now.»*
At the hospital, the consultants verdict was a reprieve: benign. Surgery, yes, but no chemo. James slumped against the wall afterwards, crying in relief. Olivia buried her face in my shoulder.
On the drive home, he kept reaching for my hand, as if reassuring himself I was really there. *»I wasted so much time,»* he said quietly.
*»No,»* I corrected. *»Weve got all the time in the world now.»*
Funny, isnt it? Sometimes you break a small rulereading someone elses messagesto mend something far more important. Maybe its wrong. But tonight, with Jamess arms around me and Olivia humming in the kitchen, I cant bring myself to regret it.
**Lesson learnt:** Love doesnt shield people by shutting them out. It carries the weight togethereven when its heavy.
