“Then clean. Don’t touch what doesn’t belong to you.”
He placed the bottle in his pocket.
I stared at him.
“Michael, are you sick?”
“No.”
“Then why are you taking medication?”
“That’s none of your business.”
The words hurt more than I expected.
We had been married for eighteen years. I had shared every fear, every disappointment, every private thought with this man.
Yet he was looking at me as though I were a stranger who had invaded his home.
That night, I barely slept.
For the first time, I wondered whether Michael was hiding a medical problem of his own.
I also wondered why he had always refused to let us seek help.
But every time I tried to follow that thought, fear pushed it away.
What if I discovered something terrible?
What if the doctor confirmed that I could never have children?
What if Michael left me?
Then, one Tuesday morning, I woke up with such severe pressure in my abdomen that I struggled to stand upright.
