Sitting in the hospital’s waiting room, I clutched the envelope with my latest test results. The date on the papers—October 12th—was circled in bold red ink. My hands felt cold despite the room’s warmth. As a nurse called my name, I couldn’t ignore the calm precision in her voice. « Mrs. Hayward, Dr. Collins will see you now, » she said. Inside, the air was thick with the sterile smell of disinfectant and the faint sound of a heart monitor beeping next door. « Your husband isn’t here yet? » Dr. Collins asked, avoiding eye contact as he scanned my file. I shook my head, too aware of the empty chair beside me. « Let’s begin, » he said quietly, and the temperature in the room seemed to shift. I nodded, bracing myself for what lay ahead, wondering how much longer I could keep pretending everything was fine.
