After weeks of hinting (and gagging), I finally convinced him to see a urologist. I decided to go with him for moral support. As we sat in the waiting room, I reassured him, “It’s probably nothing, babe. Maybe an infection or something minor.” He nodded nervously, the smell still wafting around us.
When his name was called, he disappeared behind the doctor’s office door, leaving me to scroll through my phone, trying not to think about how the receptionist kept glancing at me with pity.
Five minutes later, the door opened, and the doctor stepped out. His face was red, his lips twitching like he was suppressing a laugh.
“You might want to go in and see for yourself,” he said, barely holding back a chuckle.
My stomach dropped. “Doctor, what’s going on? Why are you laughing?”
He just gestured toward the room. My heart pounded as I stepped inside.
There stood my husband, shifting uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the room. He rubbed the back of his neck and wouldn’t meet my gaze.
“Honey…” he started, his voice hesitant. “I’m not sure how to say this… But I just had the doctor confirm… I have an STD.”
The room spun. The smell, the discomfort, the weird looks—it all clicked. My husband had been cheating.
I stared at him, feeling a mixture of rage, disgust, and betrayal.
“So,” I said, crossing my arms, “who was she?”
He swallowed hard. The doctor, still standing awkwardly in the corner, cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh, give you two a moment.”
And just like that, the worst doctor’s visit of my life became the beginning of the end of my marriage.
