The sentence landed like a blunt strike to the back of my skull.
Seven years married. No children. Never seriously discussed them because the timing never felt right. We had joint accounts, a shared mortgage, holiday photos with his parents, polite monthly transfers to them. We did not have a son.
I stood motionless while antiseptic air and distant alarms filled the silence.
“Excuse me,” I said finally, my voice eerily steady. “I need to see something.”
I stepped past her and moved toward the swinging doors. Through the reinforced window, I saw the scene that would burn itself into my memory.
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