Now I’m back in the emergency department where I belong, pulling twelve-hour shifts and feeling useful again. Life, for the most part, is good.
Except for this.
I spot my mother across the room. She’s holding court near the staircase, elegant as ever, her smile sharp with expectation. She hasn’t forgiven me for returning to the hospital. She never will. In her mind, I’m squandering influence that could be leveraged into something respectable.
Nearby, Jason stands with his fiancée, Faith. My son looks polished tonight—too polished. He always does when he wants approval. Faith is lovely in the way that makes people relax around her, soft edges, easy smile. She looks like a woman who believes what she’s been promised.
That worries me.
They approach together, and I brace myself. “Dad,” Jason says, clapping me lightly on the shoulder. Performative affection. “We were just talking about venues.”
Faith smiles. “Jason was thinking the estate would be perfect for the wedding.”
I study my son’s face. I know him too well. I know his patterns. His appetites. His talent for convincing himself that this time will be different.
The estate would be perfect, I think. For appearances. For tradition. For lying very convincingly to everyone involved. “It’s your wedding,” I say instead. “You can have it wherever you want.”
Jason relaxes immediately. Faith beams.
I drain my glass in one swallow and nod. “Excuse me.” I step away before I say something that would do more harm than good, already searching for a quieter corner, a less complicated conversation.
I don’t find one.
What I find—unbidden, unexpected—is a flash of red across the room. Something in my chest stills, sharp and alert, the way it does when an incoming trauma is wheeled through the doors.
My mother intercepts me before I make it ten steps. She has a talent for that—appearing exactly where I don’t want her to be, smile already in place, eyes assessing for weakness. Tonight she’s dressed in black and silver, elegant and severe, her mask more symbolic than functional. She doesn’t need anonymity. Everyone here knows who she is.
“Damian.” She loops her arm through mine like she’s being affectionate rather than strategic. “A word.”
I give her three. “Happy New Year, Mother.”
She ignores it, steering me toward a quieter alcove as if I’m still sixteen and capable of being guided. I let her. It’s easier than resisting, and resistance only prolongs the conversation. “You look tired. Everyone says so. Are you still working those ridiculous hours?”
“They’re called shifts.”
Her mouth tightens. “You promised you would consider stepping back.”
“I did consider it.”
“And yet,” she snaps, “you’re still in the emergency department.”
“People keep showing up injured,” I reply mildly. “Someone has to treat them.”
She exhales, slow and controlled. “The foundation needs you. The board needs you. There are ways to help people that don’t involve exhausting yourself or undermining the family’s position.”
There it is. The argument she’s been refining for years.
“I help people every day. Directly.”
“You could help more,” she insists. “With your name. Your influence.”
“With my hands,” I counter. “My judgment. My skills.”
She studies me, calculating, as if searching for leverage she hasn’t already tried. “You’re wasting yourself.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Her disappointment lands like a practiced weapon, but I’ve lived with it long enough to know it won’t kill me. I open my mouth to excuse myself when movement across the room catches my eye.
