He looked down at their joined hands.
Finally, he nodded.
The next morning, Mom asked Dad to repeat exactly what the surgeon had said.
He couldn’t.
He remembered the major details.
But everything else became:
“I think…”
“I’m pretty sure…”
“I believe that’s what he said…”
Mom stopped him.
“Give me the number.”
She called the surgeon herself.
I sat beside her with a notepad while she asked every question.
What exactly had the surgeon felt?
Was the suspicious tissue already inside the portion being removed?
Had anything else looked abnormal?
What would happen after pathology?
Then she asked the question none of us wanted to hear.
“What happens if it’s malignant?”
She listened carefully.
No interruptions.
No one whispering behind her.
No one deciding which part she could handle.
When she hung up, she looked exhausted.
But calmer.
“What did they say?” I asked.
