It was a folded medical report from the county hospital, dated from earlier this week.

My breath caught in my throat as I unfolded the page.

Written in the margin was a doctor’s name, followed by three words in hurried, messy ink.

The three words written in blue ink were: *Biopsy results pending.*

Underneath, the doctor had written a date for next Monday morning.

My hand began to tremble, the paper rustling in the quiet ballroom.

“Eleanor?” Harold’s voice was soft, his hand resting gently on my shoulder.

I couldn’t speak for a moment, my eyes locked on the bold letters.

I showed him the paper, my thumb covering the patient name, though we both knew who it belonged to.

“David,” I whispered, the name catching in my throat.

“Is he ill?” Harold asked, his eyes scanning the crumpled lines.

“He didn’t say a word to me,” I said, my voice cracking under the weight of the realization. “Not a single word.”

The realization hit me like a physical blow, knocking the wind from my lungs.

David’s outbursts, his fierce protectiveness, his sudden mood swings over the past few months.