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Summary
He always said it—the silence, the refusal to tell you anything—was for your benefit. Well, both of your benefit. He liked to keep his worlds separate. There was his family, the jobs, all the ugly and cruel and terrible things he'd done or had done to him, and there was you. You were separate. You were his pool of sunshine in a brutal winter. He hated when the sunshine touched the winter.
Of course, it always did. It was a noble effort that you both made, but ultimately, it was futile. The Andrew who woke you up with pancakes, or rested his head on your lap at the end of the day, could not be detached from the Pope who went and got himself stabbed on jobs. You couldn't live without him, but you were slowly dying with him.
(or: you left with your daughter six months ago. neither of you can really let it go.)