Chapter 2
David had a little shop in the building materials market, selling tiles and bathroom stuff. It was just a small business—some months he made ten thousand dollars, other months he couldn't make rent.
I worked as an auditor at an accounting firm. The pay wasn't great, but at least it was steady. When we got married, we didn't buy a new place. We just stayed in the old three-bedroom apartment he was renting.
I put all my savings—100,000 dollars—into the down payment for a used two-bedroom place. Our names were both on the deed.
When David got the property certificate, he told me, "I'll always treat you well." I put the property certificate at the very bottom of the safe, with my accounting license pressed on top of it.
That was our first home.
It was the fall of our third year together when David was diagnosed with ALS.
He started feeling weakness in his right hand—couldn't hold fork steady, his handwriting turned shaky and crooked. We went to the county hospital first, but they couldn't figure it out, so we headed to the provincial capital.
After the EMG, the doctor called me into his office alone. He had a stack of reports spread out in front of him, and every single one had the same conclusion.
The doctor said, "Your husband has amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. It's what we usually call ALS."
I stood by the window in the doctor's office. There was a dying pothos on the windowsill, one leaf shriveled and yellow at the edges.
The doctor kept talking—about how fast the disease would get worse, care plans, how long David might have—but I didn't hear a word. All I could think about was that brittle, withered leaf.
When I got back to the hospital room, David was leaning against the headboard, flipping through channels with the remote. He put it down when he saw me walk in.
"What's wrong with me?" he asked.
"Doctor said it's nothing serious—just low potassium. Just eat more bananas and you'll be fine," I told him.
He stared at me for a while. Then he set the remote on the nightstand. The battery cover was loose and fell off, but he couldn't lift his hand to pick it up. He just stared at the fallen cover, silent for a moment.
"Emily, if it's something serious, I don't want to go through treatment. Alex is still young. Use the money for him," David said.
I picked up the battery cover and put it back.
"Don't say that," I replied.
That night, I got home. Alex was doing his homework in his room, and only one light was on in the living room. I opened the safe and took out the property certificate. I ran my fingers over the hard cover, back and forth. After a while, I put it back.
Then I pulled out my phone and typed a note in my notes app: [Thyroid function tests are normal. Not hypothyroidism. EMG results are abnormal. Preparing for hospitalization in the provincial capital.]
One night, David found that note in my phone and realized I'd lied—low potassium was just a cover story. Between my lie and him learning the truth, we never brought it up again in the hospital.
We talked about the weather, Alex's English grades, and the inventory at the tile shop. He always kept his right hand tucked under the covers—his thumb was nearly frozen, but I never saw him check it.
He didn't want me to notice.
So I pretended not to see.
By the second year after the diagnosis, our savings were gone.