around the steering wheel.
“Every year, I promised myself I’d tell you before the next anniversary.”
He paused.
“And every year, I failed.”
Then he exhaled slowly.
“Last week, I learned I have cancer.”
I looked at him.
“It’s advanced.”
For the first time that day, some of my anger softened.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
He shook his head.
“I should have told you when I had decades left to face the consequences. Telling you now because I’m frightened of dying with the secret isn’t courage.”
He stared ahead.
“It’s
