“I have an early call, Jayne. I don’t have time for this.”
“You’re the one who started the conversation,” she shot back. “Next time, make sure you have time for it before you do.”
She slept with her back to me.
The next morning, we both pretended nothing hadhappened—pretended we hadn’t thrown barbs and accusations at each other like knives.
By the time I’m halfway through my day at work, a stress headache pounds steadily, like a drum.
I’ve been at the hospital since before six. Three consults, two rounds, one difficult family meeting. My brain’s on autopilot, fueled by bad coffee and habit.
Maybe that’s why when I finally have a moment to myself in my office—blinds half-drawn against the pale Baltimore light, trying to focus on a patient file—the words swim in front of me.
But I know work stuff, the pressure, the urgency…all of that is normal. But what’s happening at home isn’t. My family is turning against me. My wife and son are annoyed with me. My daughter seems confused by my moods.
I rub the bridge of my nose and stare at the photo on my desk. It’s one of the four of us at Ocean City a few summers ago, sunburned and grinning.
The man in it seems…happy. Nothing like the man who is looking at that photograph. I barely recognize him.
There’s a soft knock at my door.
“Come in,” I say.
Tory steps in, holding a stack of folders and a paper cup of coffee. “I figured you’d need this more than I do.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” I take the cup from her.
She smiles, settling into the chair across from me. “You looked like you were about to code yourself in that meeting earlier.”
“Feels like it.” I open my top drawer, pull out some painkillers, and wash them down with the coffee.
“You okay?” Tory’s voice is full of concern.
I shrug. “It’s just a headache.” Then I chuckle. “I swear, this place is going to kill me before a heart ever does.”
“Oh, Rhys. Do we need to reduce your hours? What can I do to help?”
I raise the coffee cup. “You already are.”
She is. She asks how I am. Asks how she can help. My family does none of that. They keep telling me I’m not good enough because I forget to pick up my kid, because I insist my wife join me for a work event…damn it.
I sip the coffee and glance at her. “What’s up?”
“Nothing urgent.” She smiles softly. “I wanted to go over the rotation schedules, but honestly, you look like you could use a breather more than a meeting.”
“Thanks.”
She studies me for a second. “You weren’t on call this weekend, Rhys. So…what’s going on?”
Nothing serious. Just my home life imploding.
I exhale. “It’s been a long weekend.”
Her brow lifts, careful and curious. “You went hiking with Paul, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, and that turned into a—” I shut up. I don’t want to talk about Jayne or what’s happening at home.But the pressure to say something—anything—is too much, and a sympathetic ear is tempting.
The only other person I’ve talked to about my marriage is Paul, and according to him, it’s all my fault.
