She stopped typing.
Then she opened another screen and studied it.
“Mrs. Eleanor, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Did you ever attend a private gynecology clinic approximately fourteen years ago?”
My fingers tightened around the strap of my handbag.
Michael looked at me.
“What clinic?”
I could barely breathe.
Dr. Harris read the information again.
“There is an old record indicating that you attended a consultation with your husband. It mentions a cystic abnormality and a recommendation for follow-up imaging.”
Michael stared at the screen.
“Dad took you to a clinic?”
I did not answer.
He turned toward me.
“Mom, what is she talking about?”
I looked at the doctor, then at my son.
For fourteen years, I had carried a secret that I had convinced myself would disappear if I never spoke about it.
Now it had followed me into a hospital room.
I closed my eyes.
