I walked straight toward the building.
Inside, a receptionist sat behind a desk.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “Can I help you?”
“My husband is here.”
She glanced at the visitor log.
“What’s his name?”
“Eliam Carter.”
She checked the screen.
Then she looked up.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t disclose information about our clients.”
“I don’t want information about anyone else. I just need to speak to my husband.”
The receptionist hesitated.
“Has he told you he’s here?”
“No.”
She gave me a sympathetic look.
“I’m sorry. I really can’t help you with that.”
I wanted to shout.
I wanted to tell her that I had spent eleven years married to a man who was apparently living an entirely separate life.
Instead, I turned and walked out.
As I reached the door, I noticed a brochure on a small table beside the entrance.
The title read:
Family Support During a Major Medical Diagnosis.
