Now, sitting in this sunny courtyard listening to colleagues discuss weekend plans I’ll never have time for, all I can think about is what I’m missing. Henry’s attempts at pulling himself up to standing, which Alexa mentioned in passing yesterday. Ash’s excitement about finishing the LEGO headquarters we started. The way Alexa used to send me little updates throughout the day… photos of Henry’s achievements, funny things Ash said, small moments that made me feel connected to home even when I was stuck at the hospital.
She hasn’t sent those texts this week. I miss them, but I understand why she stopped. I’ve made it clear that our relationship is purely professional now. Personal updates don’t fit within those boundaries.
The disappointment sits heavy in my chest, familiar and unwelcome. This is exactly what happened with my work-life balance before I took time off. Missing the small moments thatmatter because I was always somewhere else, always needed elsewhere.
“Jordan?” Abrams is studying my face with the kind of concern that suggests I’ve been quiet for too long again.
“Just tired. I should probably get back to rounds.”
I escape the courtyard before anyone can ask more questions, but the hospital corridors offer no relief from my restless thoughts. Mrs. Risk waves from her doorway, and I force a smile as I check her chart. Her latest scans show continued improvement, the kind of success story that used to fill me with satisfaction.
Today, it feels hollow.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad she’s responding well to treatment. But the victory feels muted somehow, like I’m going through the motions of caring without feeling the full extent of it.
After finishing rounds, I find myself walking toward the main lobby, needing to clear my head before the evening shift. The space buzzes with the usual activity—visitors coming and going, staff members grabbing coffee. The general controlled chaos of a busy hospital.
That’s when I see them.
A family sits near the large windows, and something about their configuration makes me stop in my tracks. A father holds an infant against his shoulder, bouncing gently while talking to a boy who looks about Ash’s age. The boy is showing his dad something on one of those kids’ tablets. The father listens with genuine interest, asking questions and making the kind of encouraging sounds that show he’s truly engaged.
The baby starts fussing, and without missing a beat in his conversation with the older boy, the father adjusts the infant’s position and rubs his back in small circles. The crying stops almost immediately, and the baby settles contentedly against his father’s chest.
It’s such a simple scene. A dad managing both kids with practiced ease while giving each of them the attention they need. But watching it makes my chest ache with a longing so intense it catches me off guard.
This is what I’ve been missing. This is what I’ve been pushing away.
The father catches the boy’s excitement about some plot twist and grins, ruffling his hair affectionately. The gesture is so natural, so full of genuine love and pride, that I have to look away.
This could have been me with Henry and Ash. We could have been the family sitting in that lobby, comfortable with each other, connected in a way that makes everything else feel secondary.
Instead, I’m standing here in my white coat, watching other people live the life I convinced myself I didn’t want.
The father glances up and catches me staring. He smiles politely, the kind of acknowledgment you give a stranger, and I realize how I must look. A lonely doctor with no place to be, envying someone else’s family moment.
I turn away quickly and head for the elevator, but the image follows me. The easy way the father balanced both children’s needs. The joy on the boy’s face as he shared something important with someone who cared enough to listen. Thepeaceful contentment of the baby, secure in arms that obviously held him often.
My phone pings in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a single text from Alexa:Henry needs more diapers and we’re at the store. Which brand did you like?
Any,I text back.You know best.
I wait another minute, but she doesn’t even respond. And there’s certainly no mention of Henry’s day, no personal details, no warmth. Just acknowledgment and sign-off. It’s exactly what I asked for when I established professional boundaries, but it feels like another small loss.
“This is what you want,” I tell myself firmly as I wait for the elevator. “Professional boundaries. Clear expectations. No messy emotions or complicated dynamics.”
But the mantra feels hollow.
The truth is, I miss them. I miss Ash’s enthusiasm about everything, the way he explains comic book plots with scientific precision, his genuine interest in learning about baseball statistics. I miss Henry’s infectious giggles, the way he lights up when he sees me, the weight of him sleeping against my chest.
And I miss Alexa. I miss her laugh, her patient way of explaining things, the comfortable silence we could sit in while watching the kids play. I miss the way she looked at me sometimes, like I was someone worth knowing instead of just someone who fills her bank account.
I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere outside of these hospital walls.
And I’m not stupid. I know I’m choosing the familiar discomfort of loneliness over the terrifying possibility of building something real with Alexa and the boys.
Because building something real means admitting that I want it. And wanting something means risking the kind of loss that could break me completely.
The elevator opens on the oncology floor, and I step out into the familiar territory of patient rooms and nursing stations. This is where I belong, where I understand the rules, where success is measured in treatment protocols and survival rates instead of bedtime stories and soccer games.
