So I reached for his.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
Just contact.
Chosen contact.
His fingers closed around mine carefully.
The morning of surgery arrived with rain.
Nora picked me up at five-thirty.
Daniel stood at the door.
“Can I come?”
I had expected the question.
“Yes.”
He exhaled.
At the hospital, I changed into a gown while Nora and Daniel waited outside.
Fear arrived all at once.
Until then, appointments had been intellectual.
Measurements.
Scans.
Percentages.
Possibilities.
But lying under a thin hospital blanket, I suddenly understood that soon I would be unconscious and strangers would be cutting into my body.
My body.
That phrase mattered now.
Dr. Patel came in.
She reviewed the procedure.
Then asked, “Any last questions?”
I almost laughed.
I had hundreds.
Instead I asked, “Will somebody tell me what you find when I wake up?”
“Absolutely.”
“Me first?”
Dr. Patel paused.
“Yes.”
“Not my husband?”
