That morning, I walked into the gynecologist’s office with the mild nerves that usually accompany a routine check-up. It was just another appointment, one I’d been through many times before. I told myself to stay calm, to treat it like any other visit. But from the moment he entered, something felt off. His smile lingered too long, his friendliness seemed forced. I brushed it aside, thinking I was being too sensitive.
During the exam, the unease turned sharp and undeniable. He leaned closer than necessary and murmured, “Your husband is a lucky guy.” The words struck me like a bolt. I froze, caught between anger, disbelief, and shock. I wanted to speak, to stop him, to leave—but I stayed silent, stunned, as he continued as if nothing had happened.
When it ended, I dressed quickly, my face burning with humiliation and rage. I resolved to report him, to never return. At home, trying to shake off the feeling, I noticed a small, round bruise on my lower abdomen—something new, something that hurt when I touched it.
The mark didn’t seem accidental. The doctor’s words now felt heavier, more menacing, and my instincts screamed that the bruise was intentional. I paced, torn between doubt and intuition. Logic struggled to keep up with the alarm growing inside me. Whatever had happened in that exam room wasn’t over. That bruise was a warning I couldn’t ignore.