The clinic’s waiting room was as nondescript as ever, with its beige walls and generic landscape paintings. I sat there, the edge of a white envelope grazing my fingers. My name was printed neatly on the front, accompanied by the date: October 3, 2023. It was just a routine checkup, something I’d done countless times without a second thought. The air was filled with the faint scent of antiseptic, and the murmurs of other patients blended into the background.
The nurse called my name, breaking my reverie. I followed her through the linoleum corridors to Dr. Harris’s office. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as I took a seat opposite him. He glanced at the folder on his desk, then at me, his expression unreadable.
“Everything looks fine,” he began, tapping the folder lightly. “But there’s something we should discuss.” His tone was calm, almost too calm, as if he were discussing the weather.
Dr. Harris continued, explaining the results of my tests in a measured voice. The numbers and medical terms blurred together, but one phrase stood out: “Consider life without children.” It hung in the air between us, a suggestion more shocking than anything I’d expected to hear.
I nodded slowly, maintaining my composure despite the turmoil inside. This was supposed to be just another checkup, a formality. Now, it felt like the ground had shifted beneath me.
The envelope in my lap felt heavier, its contents suddenly more significant. I needed time to process, to decide what this meant for my future. Could it really be that simple, to just choose a life without children?
I left the clinic, the automatic doors closing behind me with a soft whoosh. Dr. Harris’s words echoed in my mind, a weight that lingered as I stepped out into the cool October air.
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