It’s Hardly Brain Surgery

“What did the doctors say?”

Robert hesitated. The words had formed so easily in his mind during the car ride, but now, sitting across from Maureen at the kitchen table with her warm hands wrapped around a vintage coffee mug, they refused to come out.

“Nothing big,” he finally said, his voice casual, though his stomach did a 360 flip. “Just something near my left ear. A small growth, I guess. They’ll need to do a minor surgery to remove it.”

Maureen’s eyebrows knit together. “Inside your head?” She leaned forward. “So… brain surgery?”

“It’s hardly brain surgery,” Robert chuckled, trying to hide the urge to vomit. “I’ll be home the same day.”

“Oh, Robert…” Maureen’s face crumpled. She pressed her hands to her mouth.

Only then did Robert truly see her. She looked more fragile than he remembered. Thirty-five years together, and those wrinkles now seemed to hold every laugh, every late-night whisper, every shared sorrow.

Robert reached across the table, stroking her knuckles. “Let’s go to bed, my love,” he said softly, rising and circling the table to pull her into an embrace. His arm slid around her narrow shoulders. She felt so small, so breakable.

“It’s hardly brain surgery.” He kissed her forehead.