The few visits we were allowed were formalities, monitored and brief.
She seemed distant now, her eyes searching ours for answers we couldn’t provide.
Each goodbye felt like a small death, a reminder of the distance we couldn’t bridge.
In those moments, I wished for a way to turn back time, to unearth what had been buried in that backyard.
The upcoming meeting loomed like a storm on the horizon, its shadow growing longer each day.
I knew I couldn’t face it alone, but telling my wife felt like opening a wound that hadn’t healed.
There was a part of me that feared her reaction, her disappointment, her resignation.
But more than that, I feared the finality of what was to come.
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