days waiting for the scan results with fear lodged in my throat, I told no one.
Not because I was brave.
Because by then, I understood there was no one to tell.
The hospital intake desk had an emergency contact listed for me, but the paper meant more than the people whose names appeared on it.
The biopsy was benign.
I folded the results and placed them in the same kitchen drawer where I kept old warranties, Richard’s insurance letters, and birthday cards my children no longer bothered to send.
