The sweetest lie came from my fiancé.

When I met John, he was my oncologist. He treated me like any other patient, although secretly, I felt that under different circumstances, he would flirt with me.

I liked him more than any other blind date my friends had set me up on. He's always well-groomed and surprisingly fit for a person who works sixty hours a week. Most of all, I loved his voice. Even with the bad news, somehow, he made me feel comforted.

Fast forward three years.

I hadn't seen him after being cancer-free. A friend had told me that he had moved to a different hospital. Now and then, I would wonder if he was single and whether I should have asked him to dinner the last time I saw him.

I walk into my local coffee shop early in the morning. I order my usual: a croissant and ginger tea. As I am walking out, I see John jogging in the park across the street. At first, I wondered if I imagined it was him; maybe it was someone who looked like him.

The feeling of being stunned wore off in about two minutes. I suppose I was standing in the middle of the cafe, looking out the window as if daydreaming. When I finally snapped back into reality, I started to walk to my car. I closed the door and turned the key to the ignition. I sat there looking for a playlist to jam on my way home. I wasn’t focused enough because I was thinking about John. Maybe I should have yelled across the street to see if it was him.

There he was again. It was John. I had to make it seem I just bumped into him, so I pulled into the park's parking lot. I knew he would lap around again. I could feel it. Walking with my tea in my hand, I saw him coming back around. When he noticed me, he slowed down and then stopped with a massive smile across his handsome face.

John asked me out to the cafe the following Sunday. Every Sunday for many weeks, we met up at the same spot. We didn't call them dates, but that's what they were.

One day, I asked him to come with me to the museum to see my art displayed to change the pace of our dates. I also wanted his opinion about my art. That night, he asked me on a proper date, and we discussed creating artwork, famous paintings, and their makers. This was the beginning of our relationship.

Six years into our marriage, my father died. After he was gone, my mother did not last long. Their death took a toll on me; I didn’t get that picture-perfect scene where characters in a movie say goodbye to their loved ones. I felt as if I let them down.

A year into my grief, I had a feeling I recognized but never wanted to feel again. John was my doctor, and I didn’t want anyone else to tell me bad news. We did all the tests we needed. I was expecting the worst. I asked John to read the results and wanted to hear from him. I wanted his words to comfort me. Except that is not what happened at all. He explained to me that the symptoms I had were triggered by grief and that I remained cancer-free. I felt floating out of my body when he said those words. I couldn’t believe I was mistaken. I should be grateful.

John lied—a sweet lie, to help me through the moment, to deny what was to come. Nevertheless, a lie is never sweet when it's finally exposed.