Chapter 7: The Fluorescent Glow
The waiting room of the clinic was stark and quiet, illuminated by harsh fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead. Arthur paced the linoleum floor, his suit jacket discarded in the car, his white shirt sleeves still rolled up past his elbows.
Eleanor sat on a hard plastic chair, holding a sleeping Lily in her lap. The little girl had finally succumbed to exhaustion, her tear-stained cheeks resting against the sequins of her mother’s dress.
"Arthur, sit down," Eleanor said softly, her voice echoing in the empty room. "Pacing won't make the vet work any faster."
He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, and collapsed into the chair next to her. For a long time, they just sat in the sterile silence.
"I'm sorry," Arthur finally whispered, staring at his shoes. "I'm so sorry that my grief became a rule you both had to tip-toe around. I never wanted my pain to make Lily afraid of me."
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Eleanor leaned her head onto his shoulder. "We weren't afraid of you, Arthur. We were afraid of hurting you. You loved Buster so much. When he died, a part of you shut down. We just didn't want to see you break like that again."
Arthur looked at his wife, realizing the immense weight of the love she and Lily carried for him. Before he could respond, the heavy wooden door to the examination rooms swung open, and a tired-looking veterinarian stepped out.
