He sat in the shed at the end of the garden, not wanting to go into the house.
The test results were not good. Three months at the most, or maybe weeks, the doctor had said it was hard to say. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her, or his son. He would have to at some stage, but not yet. They knew he was sick; knew he was taking pills. He just needed a couple of days to think it through. He sat, thumbing through the sketches he’d made for the rabbit hutch his son needed for his new pet. It had been decided that they would all go to the pet shop together when it was built. He put his plans down and stared at the lengths of timber he’d purchased for the job. He’d been in there a long while. It was getting dark.
Meanwhile, in the house, his son comes home from school, collects the mail on the way in and goes to his room. His wife sits reading a cookbook, not sure what to get for dinner. She finally decides she would try a new recipe, although it would be a challenge. Looking down at the list of ingredients, she knew her husband would appreciate it.
Later, she is putting her latest creation on the table. Her son sits down for dinner, while his father discovers a letter marked ‘Urgent’ sitting on the hall table. He recognises the hospital’s logo stamped in the corner. He tears it open. He reads, sincere apologies… test results incorrect… new appointment… terrible mix up… more apologies…
He runs to the shed, turns on the light, marks and cuts a piece of wood to length. Looking at the plans, he picks up several more pieces and lays them on the bench.
She would be angry.
He would explain later.