Such a simple request. Such a normal, everyday thing. But as I head to the kitchen to start dinner, I feel the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders again.
I open the pantry and count the boxes of mac and cheese. Three left. I’ll need to go grocery shopping soon, but I’m putting it off until absolutely necessary. Every dollar counts right now.
While the water boils, I lean against the counter and think about tomorrow’s coffee date with Esme. Maybe I should ask if her agency is hiring. It would be awkward, but pride won’t pay the bills. At this rate, I’ll need to start using my savings next week to cover utilities and groceries.
There’s the sound of a door slamming outside, and I glance out the kitchen window. My neighbor is getting out of a sleek black car, looking every inch the successful doctor he apparently is.I’ve never actually talked to him, but the neighborhood gossip network is efficient. Dr. Jordan something. Works at Boston General.
He looks tired as he walks up his front steps, his shoulders slumped in a way that reminds me of my own exhaustion. But at least his exhaustion comes with a steady paycheck and job security.
I turn away from the window. No point in envying someone else’s life when I need to focus on fixing my own.
“Mom, is dinner ready?” Ash calls from his room.
“Five more minutes.”
As I stir the mac and cheese, I make myself a promise. Tomorrow I’ll meet Esme for coffee, and I’ll swallow my pride and ask about job openings. I’ll check all the job sites again for new postings. I’ll call the temp agencies I worked with years ago. I’ll make a post on social media asking people for leads.
Whatever it takes, I’ll make sure Ash gets to go on that trip to DC. I’ll make sure we keep this house. I’ll make sure we’re more than justokay.
We’re going to be great. We have to be.
CHAPTER 3
JORDAN
The hospital patio buzzes with conversation as I unwrap my sandwich. It’s one of those perfect Boston afternoons where the sun cuts through the usual chill, and half the staff have escaped outside for a quick lunch break.
“I’m telling you, Jordan probably has a cot hidden in his office,” Dr. Abrams says, taking a bite of her salad. “That’s the only way someone can be here as much as he is.”
“Nah,” Dr. Ferrera chimes in. “He’s got a sleeping bag under his desk. More efficient.”
Everyone laughs, including me. They’re not wrong. I do spend more time here than at home, but that’s exactly how I like it. The hospital makes sense. It has rules and protocols and problems that can be solved with the right treatment plan.
“Hey, at least when Williams retires, we know Jordan will never miss a meeting,” Dr. Abrams adds. “He’ll already be here.”
“Probably already planning his acceptance speech for department head,” Ferrera says with a grin.
I lean back in my chair, enjoying the good-natured ribbing. This is what I’ve worked for. Respect from my colleagues. Recognition for my dedication. The knowledge that they see me as someone they can count on.
“You know what they say,” I tell them. “If you love what you do, you never work a day in your life.”
“That’s either inspirational or deeply concerning,” Abrams replies. “I haven’t decided which.”
I’m about to respond when I spot Dr. Williams walking across the patio toward our table. The laughter dies in my throat when I see his expression. Serious. Grim. The kind of look that means bad news.
He stops beside our table, and suddenly everyone else seems to sense the shift in mood.
“Jordan, I need to see you privately.”
My stomach drops. Williams doesn’t do private conversations on the patio. He doesn’t interrupt lunch breaks unless something is very wrong.
“What’s going on?”
“Inside. Conference room three.”
I stand up, leaving my half-eaten sandwich on the table. Abrams and Ferrera exchange glances, but no one asks questions. In a hospital, urgent private conversations happen all the time. Usually, they’re about patients.
This feels different.
