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.
