My husband always showered before me. It was one of those quiet routines that defined our mornings—steam filling the bathroom, his bad jokes echoing down the hall while I made coffee.
That morning felt the same. Until he called out, “Hey babe, can you look at this mole on my back?”
I didn’t think much of it. He worried about everything. But when I stepped into the bathroom, my stomach dropped. The mark wasn’t a mole. It was dark, uneven, angry-looking—and new. I knew his back too well to miss that.
“This wasn’t here before,” I said.
He shrugged, joking, but something in his voice wavered. I told him we needed to get it checked. Soon.
We almost canceled the appointment. Life was busy. He felt fine. But something in me wouldn’t let it go.
At the dermatologist’s office, the room grew quiet. The doctor said she wanted a biopsy “to be safe.” A few days later, the phone rang.
It was melanoma.
The word split our lives in two.
What followed were surgeries, fear-filled nights, forced optimism, and real courage. I watched my strong, joking husband face vulnerability—and I learned how fragile “normal” really is.
We were lucky. It was caught early. Early enough to save his life.
Now, when I hear the shower running in the morning, I pause and listen.
Because one simple question—asked on an ordinary day—gave us more time.
And nothing feels ordinary anymore.
