The hospital’s waiting room was unusually quiet, save for the rhythmic tick of the wall clock. I clutched the ultrasound report in my hand, its edges crumpled from my grip. The nurse at the desk called out my name, her voice a calm harbor in the storm brewing inside me. “Mrs. Carter,” she said, “the doctor will see you now.” I followed her, my shoes echoing against the polished floor, each step a countdown to an unknown verdict. As I entered the room, the doctor handed me a folder. “Your results show some concerns,” he began, his eyes meeting mine with a practiced steadiness. The folder had today’s date stamped on it—an ordinary Tuesday that had turned anything but. I tried to focus, but the unanswered calls to my husband lingered at the back of my mind. He should have been here. Suddenly, my phone vibrated. A text. My heart leapt, only to crash as I read the message. It wasn’t from him. I looked at the doctor, his expression unchanged, unaware of the personal chaos unfolding. “We need to monitor you closely,” he continued, oblivious to the betrayal just a text away. As I nodded, pretending to listen, I realized the truth wouldn’t stay hidden for long.
