Page 71 of Love Beyond Repair
The doorbell buzzes, and I walk as quickly as my broken body will allow. Within minutes, my son’s little arms are wrapped around me, and I’m holding my boy as close to me as I can.
“Oh, I’ve missed you. I love you so much, sweetheart,” I whisper into his hair, and a tear runs down my cheek.
He giggles. “Don’t be a silly sausage, Mummy. I haven’t been away long.” I glance up to see Ben watching me intently.
“What have you boys been up to?” I smile. “Enjoying the good weather?”
“Daddy and I have been walking in the woods. We tried to find a Gruffalo, but we couldn’t. Then we went to the pond and caught tadpoles; they are starting to grow legs!” His voice is animated with childish excitement as he tells me about his time with his father.
I watch him with our son—gentle, patient, fully present. Not the man who once left me broken in my apartment. Not the ghost who disappeared for years. This Ben is… different. This Ben makes blanket forts and packs fruit in lunchboxes. This Ben reads bedtime stories in silly voices.
Every week, he sends a photo of Liam. Just one. Never asks for praise, never pushes. Just… shows up. Consistently. Like the man he’s trying to be.
And for the first time in years, I don’t know how to protect myself from him.
Every part of me wants to believe in this version of him. But belief is dangerous. Belief got me into this mess the first time
“Did you enjoy your course?” he asks. “Where didyou say it was again?”
His eyes are soft but searching. He knows, knows something isn’t right. Maybe not everything, but enough. And suddenly, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this to myself. Or even if he’ll let me. Or even if I want to.
I consider it. Consider telling him it all right now. It would be good to offload on someone, for someone else to know. But I don’t. Because he isn’t here for me. He’s here for Liam. This isn’t his battle to fight.
Chapter thirty-six
Ben
Knowing the mother of my son has cancer, but pretending I don’t, is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. She’s six months into her treatment and still completely silent on the issue.
I only know because I’m abusing my position at the cancer clinic to monitor her case. Eamon has been my informant as Bex is attending his colleague’s support group. He says she’s quiet but never misses one. She comes with another woman called Katie, who Bex has never mentioned.
According to Eamon, Katie is brash and a long-time person living with cancer. It gives me some relief that she has someone sharing the journey with her. I’m grateful shehas Katie, but part of me hates that it’s not me. That she won’t lean on me, won’t even try.
Over the past few weeks, she’s been asking me to look after Liam more often. The chemotherapy drugs must be taking their toll. When I dropped Liam home last night, she was already in bed with a migraine.
It grates on me that I can’t support her more. But if I tell her I know, then she will realize I’ve been spying on her. Regardless of the fact she has cancer, that will not go down well.
And it shouldn’t. This Bex is fiercely independent, and I love that. Which makes this betrayal—watching her without permission—feel all the more wrong. But I can’t stop. Because I’m terrified that if I blink, I’ll miss her slipping away.
Our relationship is improving slowly. There are more coffees at drop off or pick up. We attend parent meetings together alongside Kelsey, since the boys are in the same class. It makes for some interesting conversations.
Today is my shift at the Cancer Center. I spend my time here with my eyes peeled, praying we don’t bump into each other by accident. Eamon keeps a note of her treatment and appointment schedule, so we know when to expect her, but this isn’t always foolproof, as appointments change regularly.
The last thing I want to do is surprise her. Bump into her and have her realize I’ve known the whole time. Everyweek I think, maybe she’ll tell me today. Maybe she’ll let me in. And every week she doesn’t, the silence between us grows heavier.
My support group starts in ten minutes. I’m chatting with the receptionist while reading the list of names attending. It pleases me to see my patient, Anita, on the list.
She hasn’t been for a few weeks after she received a poor prognosis. Further treatment is limited because her case is terminal. When I spoke to her consultant, he said he’d advised she should expect only twelve months.
If memory serves me correctly, her daughter is due to have a baby soon, so she should be here to welcome her new grandchild, but the child will never know her. The knowledge guts me, and my mood nosedives at the depressing thought.
This is the part of being a doctor I hate. At times like this, I understand why many of my colleagues don’t become emotionally involved. They keep the relationship between doctor and patient at a distance, just another number on the list. But I feel being a doctor is so much more than that. It’s about the people, not the illness.
A booming female voice sounds through the department. Looking up, I see a voluptuous woman with blonde curls strutting into the room. She’s talking to her friend, who I realize, in horror, is Bex. I dive behind the receptionist’s desk, before she sees me, and crouch beneath the legs of the poor woman on duty who startles.
“Doctor, what are you doing?” She sounds ticked off at my bad manners.
I point up with my finger. “That woman can’t see me.” Then, I lay a finger across my lips in a sign to say,keep your trap shut.
