Julie didn't look at me. Not since the arrival of her cousin from America. She had an excuse now. She had somewhere else to place her attention.
It'd gotten a lot worse over the last few months. The same white coat and stethoscope who'd greeted me all smiles in June, kept repeating and repeating his new favourite line.
"We still have hope." His smile on his lips, his eyes on my wife. Her mind elsewhere.
After that, everyone at the hospital kept asking what they could do for me. Did I want a cup of tea? Was I in any pain? Would I need help in the bathroom? The answer was always yes. Yes, I would always need help. So I asked to go home, more to appease my long suffering Julie than out of embarrassment for myself. At some point, being shy gives way to necessity, I suppose. And so I was sent home. 
It was hard for my wife, even with the nurse visiting four days a week. She bathed me and cooked for me and cleaned up after me and literally supported me. And in return I gave her love. I didn't have anything else to give.
Then her cousin arrived from America, and something changed. Julie smiled, even laughed sometimes. She relaxed. The worry and pain I had seen in her turned to seeds of happiness and laughter. It was then that I realised my wife didn't love me anymore. And I was grateful.
She spent her days living. I spend my days being; just waiting for that final sweep of relief as she let her eyes look into mine for one last moment. My eyes, already gone.