Those three words followed me all the way home.
What if Michael had never been tested?
What if he had simply decided that I was responsible because blaming me was easier than facing his own fears?
I arrived home shortly before six that evening.
Michael was standing in the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water.
He looked at me.
“Where have you been?”
I froze.
“Out.”
“Where?”
I could hear my heartbeat.
“At the doctor.”
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the floor.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he whispered, “What did she say?”
I had expected anger. I had expected accusations.
I had not expected him to look frightened.
“She found a cyst,” I replied. “She wants me to see a specialist.”
Michael’s face lost its color.
“What kind of cyst?”
“An ovarian cyst. She said we need more tests.”
He stared at me.
