The doctor examined the spot carefully, her expression calm, professional, unreadable. She told us she wanted to run a biopsy “just to be thorough,” and in that moment, the room seemed to shrink around us. On the drive home, he rested his head against the window and whispered, “I didn’t think something small could change everything.” I reached over and took his hand, wishing I could pull the worry right out of him.
The waiting was the hardest part. Those days felt longer than entire seasons. We cooked together, watched old movies, even rearranged the living room just to feel like we had control over something.
