“Oh myGod,” I groaned, throwing my head back. “So your cure for every mommy health crisis is marriage? Medical school 101, Khalifa—matrimony isnota treatment plan.” I stared at him, incredulous. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He sighed with the weary resignation of someone admitting to a stupid, terrible thing. “I know, Lillian. I know it was wrong. But my brother had just died and...I couldn’t say no to her.”
The admission was small and ragged and human, and it should have softened me, but itdidn’t. I felt for him, but he still dragged me into a life built on lies and then expected me to accept it with a polite smile.
I moved toward my room. He reached for my arm. “Lillian, wait. Just let me explain what happened.”
I wrenched free, words falling out of me like glass. “You really don’t want me in your presence right now because I might murder you, and I’m a doctor, so I know how to make it look like an accident.”
I shut the door and locked it. For a moment I just stood pressed against the wood, breaths loud in my ears, my knees beginning to tremble, the curtain pulling tight around my chest, the bounds of my composure fraying. Twenty minutes ago, I woke up the happiest I had ever been. How was it possible that I couldn’t even recognize that girl anymore?
I mouthed the mantra like a litany:Don’t let him see you break. Don’t let him see you small. Don’t let him see you cry. I didn’t want him to have power over my weaknesses. I had given people that power for years and watched them use it like currency. Never again.
I threw on the first scrubs I could find, the blue too bright, the fabric rough against my skin. My hijab was a mismatched scrap—an apology to aesthetics I didn’t have time for. I checked my reflection once, feeling ridiculous at how crushed my face looked, then yanked the door open.
He was there, in the hallway, hands out as if he could physically stop the world from shattering. His face had that rueful, broken expression people wore when they thought apologies could be measured in words. He started to speak, to reach, to explain, and for a brief second, I almost let him.
But I forced myself to walk past him, my steps steady, my shoulders a set of defiance I’d practiced wearing for decades. I didn’t look back as I left; I couldn’t give him the image of me undone.
As the door clicked shut behind me, a part of me wanted to fall apart on the stairwell and let the city catch my pieces.Instead, I straightened my hijab with hands that did not shake, inhaled, and marched toward the day waiting, with its tiny, unglamorous demands and the one place where I could still be indestructible.
By the time I made it to work, Khalifa had blown up my phone to the point of no return, and I’d rehearsed exactly zero versions of what I’d say if anyone asked how my morning was going. Mostly because “I found out my husband had a secret wife” didn’t pair well with small talk or coffee.
Kevin was at the front desk, humming and looking far too cheerful for someone whose hair was gelled into compliance before eight a.m. “Good morning, beautiful—”
“Kevin,” I snapped, not slowing down. “I need you to order me a new desk, chair, monitor, armoire, and anything else in my office that’s remotely breakable. Same-day delivery and installation.”
He blinked. “Uh...redecorating?”
My office door slammed behind me, echoing off my ribs, and I hurled my bag to the floor like it had personally betrayed me, too.
Kevin appeared in the doorway, hesitant. “Dr. T, are you—”
I grabbed the succulent on my desk and threw it against the wall. It exploded into dirt and shards.
“—feeling okay?” he finished weakly, taking a cautious step back.
Next went my mug, the one he’d bought me that saidTrust Me, I’m a Doctor. It hit the wall and shattered into a million pieces that felt far too symbolic.
“Get out of my office, Kevin,” I said tightly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
He didn’t move. “Are you sure? Because I’m getting major murderess-on-a-rampage energy right now—”
“Now, Kevin!”
He vanished like a magician, and the second he was gone, the last thread holding me together snapped.
I tore through my office like grief had its hands around my throat. Papers flew. Drawers slammed. My diplomas—the proof that I was once composed and brilliant and untouchable—hit the floor, frames cracking. Every crash was a release valve for the pressure building in my chest. Every splinter of glass was a syllable of the wordwhy.
How couldhe? How couldI?
The questions looped until they blurred. My rage wasn’t just for Khalifa—it was for myself. For hearing his careful warnings, for seeing his hesitations, and dressing them up as fear instead of truth. For calling it vulnerability when it was guilt. For being the kind of woman who hearddon’t love meand decided it sounded like a challenge.
I’d spent years piecing myself together after heartbreaks smaller than this, convincing myself I’d learned, that I was smarter now, sharper, immune. But love, it seemed, was my favorite form of self-sabotage. And Khalifa—God, he was the final exam I hadn’t studied for.
A framed photo of us slid off the shelf and landed face down, glass bouncing across the carpet. I stared at it, chest heaving, then pressed my palms to my desk and let the silence swallow me whole.
Somewhere in the hall, Kevin’s nervous voice carried through the door. “So I’m guessing no staff meeting at nine?”
