I thanked her quickly and ended the call, my hands cold despite the warmth of the waiting room. I immediately googled the hospital’s website.

My breath hitched as I scrolled through the staff directory. He wasn’t there.

I felt the walls around me shift, and tilt. Where the hell was my husband?

I needed answers.

I drove to the hospital.

In the car, my mind spun with possibilities—clerical error, misunderstanding, something, anything that could explain this.

After an hour, I arrived. The hospital lobby smelled of antiseptic and coffee, the air filled with the low murmur of voices and the steady beep of monitors. I marched to the front desk, my voice tight with controlled urgency.

“There has to be a mistake,” I said.

“I called earlier about my husband, Dr. N. Carter.

He works here.”

The receptionist looked up, recognition flickering in her eyes. Before she could answer, a voice came from behind me.

“Mrs. Carter?”

I turned to see a doctor in a white coat standing a few feet away.

His expression was unreadable, his gaze steady.

“I know your husband,” he said. “Please come with me. I think we should talk somewhere private.”

“This must be a mistake,” I stammered.

“My husband—he works here. He told me himself. He’s a doctor.”

The doctor exhaled slowly, his face unreadable.

I followed him down a quiet corridor, my legs heavy, my breath shallow.

The walls felt too close, the air too thick. My mind raced—was Nathan fired? Was this some bizarre misunderstanding?

The doctor led me into a small office, shut the door, and turned to face me.

“Mrs.

Carter,” he said gently, “your husband doesn’t work here… because he’s a patient.”

The words slammed into me.

“No.” I shook my head. “No, that’s not possible.”

The doctor sighed and placed a folder on the desk. My husband’s name was on the cover.

I reached for it with trembling hands, flipping it open.

Test results. Dates. Diagnoses.

Stage IV.

Nathan hadn’t been working late.

Nathan hadn’t been too busy to text me back. Nathan had been fighting for his life.

I gripped the edge of the desk, my vision blurring with tears. He had lied.

He had kept this from me. And the most terrifying question of all—

How much time did he have left?

The doctor led me down a long, sterile hallway. I was bracing myself for an explanation that wouldn’t make sense—something ridiculous, something absurd.

But deep down, I already knew.

He pushed open the door to a private room. And there he was.

Nathan.

He looked thinner, paler. His dark circles were deeper than I’d ever seen.

He was sitting up in bed, dressed in a hospital gown instead of his usual crisp button-down and slacks. The moment his eyes met mine, I saw it—the flash of guilt, the recognition. He knew I had found out.

“I was going to tell you,” he said, his voice raw.

I took a slow, shaky step forward.

“When, Nathan?” I whispered. “After I planned your funeral?”

His face crumbled. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“I thought I could handle it on my own.” He spoke in a low tone. “It was just a routine check-up in November… and then suddenly, I was a patient instead of a doctor. I didn’t want to scare you.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“You lied to me.”

“I was trying to protect you.” His eyes shone with emotion. “Because I had a pretty good chance to survive.”

I sat beside him, gripping his hand. “You don’t get to decide that alone.”

A small smile touched his lips.

“Then how about this? If I make it out of this, I’ll never lie again.”

I squeezed his hand tighter. “You better keep that promise, Dr.

Carter.”

Months later, when he finally walked out of that hospital as a survivor, he kept his promise.

And when they offered him a position—not as a patient, but as a doctor once again—he looked at me, his eyes filled with something I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Hope.

Source: amomama