The counselor sat quietly in the corner, observing, her presence a gentle reminder of the gravity of the situation.
“We need to address a few things,” the physician continued, his tone gentle but firm.
My heart pounded, anticipation mingling with dread.
“Your husband was with someone else when he was brought in,” he explained, choosing his words carefully.
Each syllable was a stone dropped into the silence, rippling through the room.
The air felt thick, each breath a conscious effort.
“Who?” I managed to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He hesitated, glancing at the counselor before continuing.
“A colleague,” he said, leaving the implications hanging in the air.
My mind raced, connecting dots that had once seemed disparate.
The guarded phone, the late nights, the abrupt endings to conversations.
They all formed a pattern, one I had been too blind to see.
My husband shifted in the bed, his gaze averted, a silent confirmation of the truths unfolding.
The counselor leaned forward slightly, her expression one of empathy and understanding.
She spoke softly, “We’re here to support you both through this.”
But her words felt foreign, an unfamiliar language in this new reality.
I nodded, the motion automatic, as if agreeing to terms I hadn’t fully comprehended.
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