As the day of the meeting approached, the air grew colder, biting at my skin with an urgency I couldn’t ignore.
In the quiet moments before dawn, I’d sit at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee that had long gone cold.
My thoughts were a tangle of what-ifs and maybes, a web of uncertainty that refused to untangle.
One morning, as the first light crept through the window, I finally spoke the words I’d been avoiding.
“There’s a meeting next week,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
My wife looked up from her mug, her eyes searching mine for the truth beneath the words.
“What kind of meeting?” she asked, though I knew she already sensed the answer.
“A final review,” I replied, the words heavy on my tongue.
Her silence was a weight in the room, pressing down on us both.
“And if they decide against us?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with a tremor of fear.
I had no answer for her, only the ache of uncertainty that had become our constant companion.
“We’ll figure it out,” I said, though the words felt hollow, an echo of a promise I couldn’t keep.
She nodded, her gaze drifting to the window where the first signs of frost clung to the glass.
“I just want her home,” she said, her voice breaking the silence with its quiet plea.
Her words cut through the air, a reminder of all that we had lost, all that we were still fighting for.
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