I saw it again in the harsh fluorescent light, uglier than it had looked in the living room. Darker. More deliberate somehow. Not a vague discoloration. Not a little mark you could talk yourself around. A bruise. Blue and purple at the center, shadowing out toward yellow at the edges.
The nurse’s face changed.
It wasn’t dramatic. That’s the trouble with professionals. They learn to keep most of their alarm hidden. But I saw her mouth flatten, saw the slight tightening around her eyes, and I knew the moment she knew it too.
“I’m getting the doctor,” she said quietly.
My stomach dropped so hard I thought I might actually be sick right there on the linoleum.
Something was very wrong.
Dr. Patel arrived within minutes. He was one of those physicians whose calm does not feel performative. Middle-aged, with kind eyes and the tired posture of a man who had spent years delivering bad news without ever becoming casual about it. He introduced himself as he pulled on gloves, then looked at me in that careful way doctors do when they’re trying to gather facts and prevent people from shattering in front of them.
“When did you first notice this?”
