When the technician called my name, my mother squeezed my hand.
“I’ll be here.”
I nodded.
The scan took longer than I expected.
Too long.
When it finally ended, the technician told me the physician would speak with me.
That was when I knew.
Something had been found.
I sat in the consultation room alone.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Finally, the door opened.
The doctor entered carrying a tablet.
My mother came behind him.
Vega was standing in the hallway.
He saw my face and immediately stepped inside.
“What happened?”
The doctor looked at me.
“We found an area that needs further evaluation.”
My heart dropped.
“How big?”
“Small.”
“How small?”
“About one centimeter.”
My mother sat beside me.
“Is it cancer?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I closed my eyes.
For fourteen months, I had imagined this moment.
But imagination had always made it dramatic.
A doctor crying.
A room falling silent.
Someone telling me the worst.
The real thing was quieter.
A small shadow on a screen.
A needle biopsy scheduled for the following week.
More waiting.
More uncertainty.
I looked at Vega.
He didn’t say anything.
He simply pulled a chair beside mine.
For the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to pretend I was okay.
