As Dr. Collins began explaining the results, I could barely focus. My mind wandered back to the unanswered calls, the late nights, the whispered conversations I wasn’t meant to hear. He spoke of numbers and percentages, complications, and the need for further tests. “Do you have any questions?” he asked, looking up from the file. I hesitated, words caught in my throat, then shook my head. “Not right now,” I replied, my voice barely audible.
Leaving the office, I clutched the papers like a lifeline. The hospital corridors seemed endless, each step echoing the dissonance in my life. A text buzzed on my phone. It was from my husband, Mark, with a simple “Busy, can’t talk.” I stared at the screen, the reality of his absence more painful than the diagnosis I had just received. The nurse at the front desk offered a rehearsed smile as I passed. “Take care, Mrs. Hayward,” she said, her eyes not quite meeting mine. I nodded, trying to hold myself together.
With each passing day, the distance between us grew. The documents I had collected, each a testament to his infidelity, remained tucked away in a drawer. They were my secret, my burden, my proof. One evening, as I sat alone at the kitchen table, I realized the truth. I had been fighting a battle on two fronts—my health and my marriage—and I was losing both.
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