I’m avoiding calling my sister to tell her about this new worry, unsure if the truth will tear us apart or bind us closer as we face whatever is coming next.
The waiting room is a mix of soft colors, designed to calm, but today it feels like a cage.
My husband paces in front of me, his movements erratic, his mind elsewhere.
“What do you mean?” I whisper, hoping for clarity.
He stops, looking at me with eyes that seem to hold too many secrets.
“I’ve seen it before,” he admits, his voice tight, strained.
The words sit between us, a barrier and a bridge at once.
His insistence on the mark being significant unsettles me.
But there’s something in his eyes, haunted and pleading.
He’s asking for trust, and I’m torn between the past we share and the unknown ahead.
