This time, I insisted. It’s taken care of, I told her. So she did. Reluctantly at first, but when she saw the way it made me smile, she let herself get into it and enjoy the splurge.

We wake up to our last morning in our Parisian flat.

We pack up, and I tell her to leave everything but her carry-on and purse, it’ll all be taken care of.

We haul our carry-ons down to the cafe a half block from our flat, where we’ve become regulars this past month. We get espresso and pain au chocolat, sit one last time watching the passersby, gazing lovingly at each other.

“Thank you for this,” she says, finally, after a long thoughtful silence between us.

I’ve been getting emotional, lately. I have to fight it so she doesn’t misinterpret it. “No, Nadia. Thank you. You’ve made this best month of my life.” I have to clear my throat, look away.

She reaches across the small round table, through the wreckage of espresso cups and pastry platters and crumbs. Takes my hand. I have to look back, at her, meet her eyes.

“Best month ever,” she agrees.

It’s there, unspoken.

Not yet. I silently plead with her to not ask, not yet.

She doesn’t.

Touch down, Atlanta.

Home.

Unpacking.

I’d arranged for the house to be cleaned in our absence, the fridge emptied and restocked, bed linens refreshed, fresh flowers everywhere. So it’d be a welcoming homecoming.

It’s impossible to ignore reality, now.

Finally, I know it’s time to tell her. I loathe this. She’ll be angry I’ve waited so long. There’s so little time left.

It’s hard to get out of bed the next morning. So, for once, I don’t.

Nadia comes in with coffee, a mug for each of us. I take mine, sip at it.

“We need to talk,” I whisper.

She nods, but is already blinking hard.

A brief, hard pause.

“What is it, and how long?” she asks.

“Pancreatic. End-stage…” I have to pause for courage. “Probably another month or two.” Getting those words out is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.

“Adrian.” Her hand trembles. She comes perilously close to spilling scalding coffee on her hands, so I take the mug from her and set it on the bedside table.

She stands up. Paces away.

I give her space.

She turns around, and I see that anger I know I deserve in her eyes. “A month or two?”

I nod, shrug. “There’s no way to know for sure.” I try to swallow, but can’t. “This isn’t exactly scientific here, but…I can feel…it. The end. It’s not far off.”

“No…” she hisses. “No, Adrian, no.”

I don’t know what to say, now that this moment is here. “I’m sorry I kept it from you.”