Morning light crept in, brushing soft gold across the countertops.
Brock cracked a grin. “Glad the prodigal son came back.”
Bryce chuckled, full and free. “Me too. And man… Beth? She’s incredible.” Bryce caught himself just before he spilled the beans on their pregnancy.
Without another word, Brock reached out and prayed.
For Bryce. For Beth. For their marriage.
When the last Amen fell, Bryce stood and crossed to the kitchen. He prepped the coffee pot so it would be ready when Beth woke up.
“You think missions in Belize might be back on the table?” Brock asked, watching his brother with a knowing look.
Bryce paused, hand hovering over the switch.
“I’ve wondered that myself.”
CHAPTER 33
Beth could see God’s hand at work in her personal life—from the sweet moment she and Bryce shared when he made good on his baby celebration promise, arriving home with pink and blue cupcakes and the softest white baby blanket she’d ever felt, to the encouragement they received at church, where some of the families came together to throw them a small bridal shower (the “Plastics,” as Lynn had started calling them, were notably absent)—life at home had grown idyllic.
But work? That was becoming harder to face with every passing day.
Crystal was relentless.
What started as sharp glances and biting comments had morphed into a full-blown military offensive. She’d begun picking up shifts—always the ones Bryce worked without Beth. Always at her most smug when she slid onto the hospital in lip gloss, tight scrubs, and an attitude like she owned the place.
Beth could handle passive-aggressive barbs—most of them, at least. But Crystal didn’t stop there.
One morning, Beth found a sticky note pressed to her locker.
?Hope he doesn’t snore as much
as he used to!?
The next day, her name on the break room schedule board had been erased and rewritten in bubble letters asMrs. Right-Now?
Beth stared at it, stunned. Across the hall, Crystal leaned against the counter, smirking, tapping a marker against her chin like she was proud of her masterpiece.
Then there was the patient incident.
Beth saw Crystal exit a room, eyes red-rimmed, wiping away tears. Instinctively, Beth moved to comfort her.
“The patient was… awful,” Crystal choked out. “Said some horrible things. I just… I can’t go back in. Could you—just this once—handle the follow-up?” Beth nodded, heart soft, and stepped into the room.
What awaited Beth inside the room was a verbal assault.
The patient was furious. They called Beth a homewrecker, claiming they’d heard all about how she had “slept with that other poor nurse’s husband and left their children fatherless.”
Beth tried to respond or redirect but it was no use. The patient raged on.
By the time she discharged them, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes burned. Crystal was there, just outside the door, reapplying her mascara. Smug. Silent. Victorious.
Later that same week, Beth was asked—by the charge nurse—to assist with the discharge of one of Crystal’s patients. Twice. Both times were landmines. Charts were misfiled. Meds hadn’t been ordered. The families were irate, and somehow, Crystal managed to lay the blame at Beth’s feet.
Even when they weren’t scheduled together, Crystal found ways to get under her skin.
Some of the other nurses started wearing little enamel pins shaped like wedding rings. The glittery pins read #TeamCrystal. Beth tried to tell herself it wasn’t a reference to their marriage and that she was being paranoid.
