My husband always showered before me. I’d hear the water running while I made coffee, and he’d shout silly comments from behind the curtain. But one morning, his voice trembled.
“Babe… can you look at this mole on my back?”
I laughed at first, thinking he was being dramatic again. But when I walked in, the curtain was slightly open, steam filling the room, and he stood perfectly still—shoulders tight, no playful smile. The “mole” was a dark, uneven patch I’d never seen before.
“Let’s get it checked,” I said, touching his arm. He nodded, but fear lingered in his eyes.
For days, we pretended things were normal—work, meals, evening walks—but something heavy sat between us. He tried to joke, but the spark behind his humor was dimmer.
At the dermatologist, the doctor examined the spot quietly and said she wanted a biopsy “just to be thorough.” The room suddenly felt too small. On the drive home, he whispered, “I didn’t think something so small could change everything.”
The waiting was the worst part. Yet in that stretch of anxious days, we talked more deeply than we had in years. He admitted he hid worry behind jokes. I admitted I sometimes forgot he needed reassurance too.
When the results came—benign—we both exhaled like we’d been holding our breath for weeks.
That night, he hugged me and said, “I’ll never take mornings for granted again.”
And neither will I.