Chapter 2
Michael's gaze sent a chill creeping over me.
I grabbed his arm, asking urgently, "What did Dr. Warren say? What's wrong with me?"
His lips moved, but no sound came out. He simply looked at me, his arm stiff.
Grace came out from behind him, glanced at me, and sighed, "He'll tell you. Go home."
Michael looked like he'd lost his soul. He turned around numbly and grabbed my wrist with astonishing strength.
"Go," he said, his voice cold and harsh.
I stumbled along as he dragged me outside, my mind in complete chaos.
This wasn't how a husband should act after hearing his wife was gravely ill.
What the hell was going on?
*****
The drive home from the hospital felt endless.
Michael gripped the steering wheel, eyes locked straight ahead, not uttering a single word.
The city outside the window blurred past, like a silent movie.
The air in the car was so heavy it felt like it could freeze.
I sat in the passenger seat, wanting to speak several times, but the words died in my throat.
Michael's profile was tense, his jaw clenched.
I'd known him for over twenty years, and I'd never seen him like this.
We started dating in college, got married, and now our son was eighteen.
Michael'd always been gentle and responsible.
No matter how big the problem, he'd carry it himself, never letting me worry.
But today, he was a stranger.
The coldness in his eyes sent a chill straight to my bones.
Finally, I couldn't help but call out softly, "Michael."
He gave no reaction, as if he hadn't heard me.
"What did Dr. Warren say?" I sharpened my tone.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white.
"Nothing," he ground out through gritted teeth.
"Nothing?" I raised my voice. "Then why did she call you in alone? Why did you come out wearing that look? Why were you staring at me like I was your enemy?"
My questions shot at him like bullets.
The car jolted sharply—he seemed to tap the brakes, then let go.
"Helen Quinn," he called, "can you be quiet for a while?"
My heart ached. All these years, he'd never called me that. He always called me "Helen" or "honey."
"You have to tell me," I said, my tone hardening. "It's my body. I have the right to know."
He took a deep breath, like he was trying to keep something down.
"Dr. Warren said it's a regular hormonal imbalance. Bleeding after menopause happens all the time. It's nothing serious.
"Get some rest and stop overthinking," he said quickly and smoothly, as though reciting lines he had memorized ahead of time.
I didn't believe a single word of it.
If it were simply hormones, would Dr. Warren have looked so grim?
Would she have called Michael in alone and said my case was 'special'?
He was treating me like a fool.
"You're lying," I said coldly.
He whipped his head around and glared at me, his eyes burning with anger and irritation.
"I'm lying?" he snapped. "do you think our life is too peaceful that you have to make trouble out of nothing? The doctor said it's fine. What else do you want?"
I was stunned by his outburst, tears welling up in my eyes.
I wasn't making trouble. I was scared. I wanted the truth.
Yet he treated my fear as nothing more than unreasonable tantrums.
My heart went cold in an instant.
I turned my head toward the window and fell silent, tears sliding down my cheeks.
The rest of the drive was dead silent.
When we got home, Michael tossed the car keys onto the entryway cabinet, walked straight into the study, and slammed the door shut.
I stood alone in the empty living room, feeling cold all over.
The home I'd lived in for twenty years suddenly felt completely foreign.
That evening, I fixed dinner, all his favorite dishes.
I waited at the dining table for a long time, but he never came out of the study.
I went to knock on the door. "Michael, dinner's ready."
His voice came through the door, dull and impatient. "I'm not hungry."
My hand hovered on the doorknob, not moving for a long time.
That night, we slept in separate rooms.
It was the first time since we got married, except for when he was on business trips.
I lay in the big, empty bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep all night.