Over the next few days, we pretended life was normal—work, meals, evening walks—but there was a quiet heaviness between us. He tried to joke as usual, but the sparkle behind the jokes wasn’t quite the same. When the dermatologist appointment finally came, we sat in the waiting room holding hands, both of us pretending we weren’t imagining worst-case scenarios. The doctor examined the spot carefully, her expression calm, professional, unreadable. She told us she wanted to run a biopsy “just to be thorough,” and in that moment, the room seemed to shrink around us. On the drive home, he rested his head against the window and whispered, “I didn’t think something small could change everything.” I reached over and took his hand, wishing I could pull the worry right out of him.
The waiting was the hardest part. Those days felt longer than entire seasons. We cooked together, watched old movies, even rearranged the living room just to feel like we had control over something. And somewhere in the quiet of those days, we talked more honestly than we had in years. He admitted he often hid his worries behind humor. I admitted I sometimes forgot that even the strongest people need reassurance. The fear we shared didn’t create distance—it somehow softened us, reminded us that every ordinary morning, every silly comment from behind a shower curtain, was its own kind of blessing. Continue reading…
