Page 14 of The Weight of Her Silence
Something was wrong with her body. But something even worse was wrong with their marriage. And she wasn’t sure which one would destroy her first.
Chapter 13
Quiet Diagnoses, Quieter Lies
The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and false hope. Lila sat with her hands folded in her lap, her sweater too heavy for the overheated clinic, but she didn’t shrug it off. It felt like a shield—one of the few she had left.
She hadn’t told Nate where she was going. He was in meetings, or maybe he wasn’t. These days, he only offered vague updates about his schedule.
She didn’t press anymore. Asking only gave him more opportunities to lie.
Dr. Shetty was gentle. He had kind eyes. But even his soft tone couldn’t cushion the weight of the word when it finally came.
“We need to wait for the result,” he said, quietly, flipping the folder closed.
“There are still more tests to run, but I suspect it’s systemic. Possibly cancer, or something related. You’ve been ignoring symptoms for quite some time.”
“I thought I was just tired,” she said.
“You’ve been more than tired, Lila.”
She nodded, her throat tight.
“Will it… will it get worse?”
“It can be managed. But we need to start now.”
She left the office with a folder full of appointments and a prescription she hadn’t yet filled. She didn’t cry.
She didn’t even flinch. She just sat in her car in the underground garage for thirty minutes, staring at the dashboard, trying to remember how to breathe. When she finally pulled into the driveway, the house was dark.
Nate wasn’t home. Of course he wasn’t.
Nate
Camille opened the door wearing lace and a smile. She didn’t even ask if he wanted to come in—she just pulled him by the shirt and kissed him like he was her favorite sin.
“You smell like guilt,” she whispered into his mouth, her hands already moving to his belt.
“Leave it at the door.”
He wanted to. God, how he wanted to. She pulled him down onto the couch, climbing onto his lap with ease, her legs wrapping around him. The scent of her skin, the press of her lips against his neck—it all drowned out everything else. The kids. The house. The hollow woman who watched him with too-quiet eyes every night. With Camille, it wasn’t just sex. It was escape. It was forgetting.
“You missed me?” she teased, rolling her hips until he gasped.
He didn’t answer. She didn’t need him to. Later, lying tangled in her sheets, Nate stared at the ceiling as Camille traced lazy circles across his chest.
“Do you ever think about leaving her?” she asked.
The words landed sharp.
Nate turned his head, staring at her.
“Camille…”
“I’m just asking. Don’t get defensive.”
“I have kids.”
