The day I picked up my pathology results, my husband, Vincent Hale, was teaching Bridget Sutton how to log her medication in our shared health app. We'd set it up for the two of us after we got married. Now he'd even renamed it Bridget's Recovery Log. I scrolled back through all 400 entries. He'd noted that Bridget couldn't drink ice water and recorded her medication times down to the minute. The upper endoscopy report I'd uploaded a month earlier still had a red "unread" badge. That evening, Vincent brought Bridget home from the ER after an allergic reaction and poured her water into my cup. He used my pathology report as a coaster for her medicine box. Bridget glanced at the words on the page and shifted uneasily. "Is Meredith sick?" "She's always been healthy. All she ever does is act like her stomach hurts." Vincent's face hardened as he pressed the cup into her hands. "Your drug allergy nearly killed you. Don't worry about her." I watched the water tremble in the cup. When Vincent had a bleeding ulcer three years ago, I'd checked his water with a thermometer every day and waited until it cooled to 104 degrees before handing it to him. In our house, warm water was how we said I care. He'd promised that one day it would be his turn to take care of me. Now he was soothing another woman's stomach with water at the very temperature I'd so carefully measured for him. The words suspected malignancy on my pathology report weren't a final diagnosis. Yet, strangely, I wasn't afraid. What scared me more than dying was a long life in which even my pain always came second.