“No,” she shot back at me quickly.
I exited the vehicle and moved around to her side before she could argue. I opened her door before she could protest again.
“I can walk,” she said.
“You can,” I agreed. “You should not.”
Inside the lobby, the front desk was already busy.
“I’ll get a wheelchair,” I told her.
“Raphael.”
“It will be faster.”
She opened her mouth to argue again, then closed it. “Fine,” she muttered.
When I returned with the wheelchair, she looked at it like it had personally offended her pride. “I’m not broken,” she said quietly.
“I know. You are healing.”
She hesitated, then lowered herself carefully into the seat. I adjusted the footrests without comment and pushed her toward intake. The motion felt . . . steadying. I was ready to sit in the waiting room next to her, but they took her back quickly. Too quickly. I was left standing in the lobby with no immediate task.
I do not enjoy idle waiting.
I sat for approximately thirty seconds before standing again. Then I began to pace measured strides between the coffee machine and the bank of windows overlooking the parking lot.
I did not like that she was back there without me. I did not like that someone else was assessing her body, making decisions about her recovery, and I was not present to hear them. I told myself this was excessive, but it did not change the feeling.
An hour passed. I checked my watch three times. Each time, it had moved less than I wanted it to.
A receptionist approached with a small paper cup. “You look like you could use this,” she said gently.
I took it. “Thank you.”
“She’s in good hands,” the woman added. “Your wife is being well taken care of.”
The word hung between us.Your wife.
For a fraction of a second, instinct kicked in. I almost corrected her.
Then I stopped.
No.
Shewasmy wife.
The thought landed with unexpected weight and clarity.
“Yes,” I said finally. “She is.”
The receptionist smiled and walked away. I remained standing there for a moment longer, the coffee cooling in my hand.
My wife. Just the thought. Not an arrangement. Not a contract. Not variable.
My wife. It’d been so long since I thought about hearing those words.
The doors to imaging opened shortly after. An orderly rolled her out in a wheelchair, a stack of paperwork balanced in her lap. Her hair had fallen loose around her shoulders again. She looked tired, but she was smiling. Relief flooded through me before I could suppress it.
