As the day of the meeting approached, the air grew colder, biting at my skin with an urgency I couldn’t ignore.
In the quiet moments before dawn, I’d sit at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold.
My thoughts were a tangle of what-ifs and maybes, a web of uncertainty that refused to untangle.
One morning, as the first light crept through the window, I finally spoke the words I’d been avoiding.
“There’s a meeting next week,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
My wife looked up from her mug, her eyes searching mine for the truth beneath the words.
“What kind of meeting?” she asked, though I knew she already sensed the answer.
“A final review,” I replied, the words heavy on my tongue.
Her silence was a weight in the room, pressing down on us both.
“And if they decide against us?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with a tremor of fear.
