“So, Doc, how do you feel about Mrs. Jones being the new principal?” Devon asks.
“Why couldn’t she have taken the job last year?” Garrett grumbles, his leg now forgotten. “We had Clinton for senior year. That’s cruel.”
“I’m happy for her. The school is lucky to have her.”
Why do I sound bored talking about my wife?I force a smile.
Emma’s career goals have been an evolving venture the longer we’ve been married. At first, she was content being a doctor’s wife, putting her dreams of art on pause until I finished residency. But then we had the twins, and being a mom became her dream. But she needed an outlet, and teaching is natural for her. Eventually, she found herself with an entirely new list of aspirations. Adapting hasn’t been easy, but I’ve tried.
“I’m really excited for her,” I say.
The kids watch me, skeptical.
“I’m really excited for her.” Repeating it doesn’t make it any more convincing.
“Right,” Devon says, “well, I think she’ll do a great job. Sucks we won’t be around to see it.”
“I’m sure you’ll be around.”
They both smile at this and shrug. This town couldn’t get rid of these two if it tried. They jog off to Devon’s truck, a black Tundra with faded chalk lettering plastered across the back window.
Off to a wedding.
He was one of Benny’s groomsmen last month, went as far as tying Coke cans and ribbon to his fender, when the couple drove off in their own car.
The entire day, I was selfishly thinking about my own wedding. Fifteen years ago.
Emma spent four months creating vision boards, binders, outlines. Anything you can think of for the pre-planning stage of wedding planning. Then it was another six months of official planning before the actual day. The longest ten months of my life. I would’ve married her in ninety-degree weather at two in the afternoon, inside a garbage can. I didn’t care. I was so in love with her; I just wanted her to be my wife at whatever cost.
A rush of something comes over me, a nearly forgotten sensation, as the memory of her floods my brain. She was dressed in silk and pearls. Her dark hair was smoothed back, with one rogue piece near her left ear. Her skin was dewy, with pink cheeks and lips to match. The ceremony was small, but every detail was pristine. It was simple and stunning.Shewas stunning. But she didn’t have to try very hard.
The memory is clear as day, replaying like a movie I’ve seen ten times.
Emma…when I first met you, I was stunned.Sure, it might’ve just been the dart skills or the captivating green eyes, or the giant poster board in student hall—TIPS ON HOW TO ORGANIZE YOUR TOILETRIES. Whatever it was, I was entranced, and it became my mission to wear you down.
Laughs filter through.
But behind all the art, and organization, and humbling whit, I saw so much more. A woman who is gentle and kind, yet brutally honest. Laser-focused, yet easily distracted by puppy commercials. Serious about everything that matters, big and small. A woman who puts everyone else before herself. I can’t believe I’m the man lucky enough to spend a life with a woman so loving, generous, and capable. I want to care for you the way you care for me. I want to give you a life you love and a love worth living for.
Saying our vows was the hardest thing I had ever done; my heart was in my throat. Not because they were difficult to say, but because they were everything.
The memory distracts me long enough to miss Devon and Garrett pulling out of the lot. I wave them off anyway and take a lap around the building, the sun warm on my face as the cold January air whips past. I check my phone, hoping to hear from Emma, but nothing yet. I check my email to confirm my order was placed. It was. So I wait.
A few patients come and go—still no text. I was a jerk in the car this morning, and instead of apologizing the second I snapped at her or the kids, I just walked inside. Left her in the cold. So I sent flowers. Because she deserves flowers. And I probably should’ve sent them on her first day as a principal, but I dropped the ball there too.
I’m incapable of admitting my wrongs without a dramatic display anyway. Like I need to ensure that she, and everyone watching, knows I’m a bigger man than I really am. So overpriced flowers it is.
Things haven’t been easy. Being a dad and husband comes with the typical struggles, sure. But being a husband to a woman who has been through hell and comes out still standing? There’s an unspoken pressure lingering over me at every turn. Not because Emma puts it on me, but because she refuses to let anyone see her struggle, which means I can’t let anyone see me struggle.
Being a healthy forty-year-old with three healthykids means I shouldn’t struggle.
I remind myself of this as I move through the patient load. It’s a typical Tuesday—busy but smoother than yesterday. I’m grateful but also aware we’re only two hours in.
My next patient is a thirty-seven-year-old female with nausea and stomach cramps times five days.
“Ms. Richards, how are we doing this afternoon?” I shake her hand and clock the daunt skin, dark circles, and sweaty temples immediately. “What’s been going on?”
“I feel like trash,” she says weakly. “I don’t think I’ve felt this bad since I got the flu last year.” She shoves a fist to her mouth as a soft belch escapes. I see the embarrassment flush her cheeks, but I’m unfazed, not letting the motion waver the smile painted on my face.
