On the back, faded handwriting read:
For the days when neither of us feels brave.
“Grandma wrote that for Meryl,” Skyla said.
“She used to go with her to appointments and write down whatever the doctors said. Meryl told me she couldn’t make the illness disappear, but she could make sure her friend didn’t have to remember everything alone.”
She looked at me.
“I thought maybe I could do that for you.”
I couldn’t answer.
She touched the papers.
“I don’t have the money you’re asking for. But I found people who might help us understand what comes next.”
I looked at the worn recipe card, then at her ink-stained hands.
Five days of work, all because she’d believed me.
I tried thanking her, but my voice broke.
I covered my face and began sobbing.
Skyla moved closer.
“Archie?”
I shook my head, unable to stop crying.
“Hey,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”
“Skyla, what have you done?!”
She reached for my hand.
And suddenly, I understood that allowing her to comfort me without confessing would only deepen my betrayal.
“Skyla, I’m not sick.”
She stared.
“What?”
“There’s no diagnosis. No treatment.”
For an instant, relief crossed her face.
“The doctors made a mistake?”
I shook my head.
“I made it up.”
She withdrew her hand.
“Made what up?”
“All of it. I wanted to know whether you’d stay if I couldn’t afford treatment.”
Her gaze dropped to the documents.
“You let me ask strangers how to keep you alive.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I spent five days learning how not to leave you alone. And you spent those same five days deciding I’d abandoned you.”
I reached toward the recipe box.
Skyla pulled it away.
“Don’t.”
She gathered the papers, returned the old card, and closed the lid.
“Why would you do this to me?”
“My parents and friends kept saying you wanted my money.”
“And you believed them?”
“I started wondering.”
She picked up her bag.
“Two years, Archie.”
I couldn’t respond.
“You could’ve asked me anything.”
“I know\… babe… I’m…”
“No. You don’t.”
She walked out carrying the box.
I didn’t follow.
The next morning, I sent one message apologizing and offering to repay her travel expenses and lost wages.
She replied that she’d cover her own costs and needed space.
I respected her decision.
Then I admitted everything to my parents.
Mom began, “Well, at least you know she wasn’t after your money.”
“She spent five days trying to save my life. I spent five days deciding she wanted my money.”
Dad insisted I’d merely been protecting myself.
“I could’ve been cautious without lying to her.”
Neither parent argued.
I began seeing a counselor.
Weeks passed before Skyla finally contacted me.
Coffee? Our old diner. Saturday.
She looked well when she arrived.
We discussed her classes and Meryl before she eventually set down her cup.
“Do you still think I’d have left if you really were sick?”
“No.”
She watched me carefully.
“But that’s not why I was wrong,” I continued. “I frightened you because I wanted proof. You never agreed to be tested.”
“I don’t know if I can trust you again.”
“I understand.”
She finished her coffee.
“Maybe we could meet again sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
We began rebuilding our relationship slowly.
Several months later, Skyla invited me over for dinner.
She was preparing her grandmother’s chicken soup.
While I chopped vegetables, she searched through the wooden recipe box.
Then she handed me a newer card.
FOR THE PERSON I LOVE.
On the back was a list she’d written before traveling to Meryl’s house.
The final instruction read:
Don’t let him forget he’s still Archie, even when he’s frightened.
I read it twice.
My eyes filled with tears.
Skyla gently took the card and returned it to its place.