The MRI results came in a plain white envelope delivered by courier the next afternoon. Chase had insisted on opening it alone in the study, door closed, like he could keep the truth from reaching me if he held it tight enough. I waited in the kitchen, pretending to fold laundry while the triplets napped upstairs. My hands shook folding the same towel three times.
When he finally came out, he looked smaller somehow—shoulders rounded, eyes hollow. He didn’t speak at first. Just placed the envelope on the counter between us like it might bite.
“Torn MCL,” he said quietly. “Grade three. Surgery next week. Six months minimum. Maybe eight before full contact. They’re talking career-ending if rehab doesn’t go perfectly.”
I felt the air leave the room.
He stared at the envelope like it was a
