The morning of the appointment arrived, and with it, a sense of impending change.
My husband was quieter than usual, his eyes focused somewhere far away.
“You ready?” I asked, breaking the silence that had settled over the breakfast table.
He nodded, but his demeanor was distant.
The drive to the neurologist was filled with a heavy silence, punctuated only by the sound of the road beneath us.
I wanted to reach out, to say something that might comfort him, but words felt inadequate.
At the clinic, we sat side by side, waiting for his name to be called.
He tapped his foot nervously, a habit I’d noticed more often lately.
“It’ll be fine,” I whispered, but I wasn’t sure if I believed it.
The appointment was a blur of medical jargon and concerned faces.
