“And where did you get your medical degree?”
“The University of British Columbia. Where did you get yours?”
He stiffened. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Fantastic,” I said brightly. “Then let’s keep the questions strictly medical and continue going over your wife’s birth plan. Given the twins’ positioning, induction gives us a bit more control over—”
Mr. Thompson’s hand shot up. “Wait,” he said. “Why do you want to induce labor? Isn’t natural always better?”
I took a deep breath. “Induction is sometimes medically necessary, especially with twins. We monitor growth, position, and maternal health, and if any factor suggests early delivery is safer, we recommend induction.”
He frowned. “But isn’t there a risk?”
“Yes, there’s always risk. But we weigh the risks against the benefits. That’s what we do in medicine.”
He leaned forward, arms crossed, skepticism etched on every line of his face. “And the epidural—are you sure it’s safe? I read something online—”
“I’ve read plenty of things online too, Mr. Thompson,” I interrupted gently. “Medical decisions aren’t made on randomarticles. They’re made on evidence, experience, and your wife’s health. The epidural is safe in twin pregnancies under our care, and we’ll monitor closely.”
He opened his mouth again, then paused, looking at his wife for reassurance. She smiled faintly at me, her hand resting on her bump. I let it slide for now, inhaling slowly to keep the bite from my tone.
“With twins, we may recommend specific positions during delivery. Side-lying, semi-reclined, sometimes even hands-and-knees if the baby is breech. The goal is to reduce complications for both Jennie and the babies.”
He interrupted again. “Can’t she just stand? Or squat?”
I pressed my lips together and let out the tiniest exhale through my nose. “Squatting can help in some singleton births, but with twins, positioning is more complex. Safety is the priority.” I hesitated for a second before continuing. “Mr. Thompson, I appreciate your concern, but your wife’s body, her babies, and the medical plan are my responsibility. I will answer your questions, of course, but please trust that I have the expertise to guide you through this safely.”
He nodded curtly and finally leaned back, mumbling something under his breath.
By the time the appointment ended, the charts updated, the questions answered—though not all of them, not fully—I was exhausted in a way I didn’t usually get with work. Exhausted because I had to fight not just for their babies’ safety, but for the recognition of my authority, my competence, my presence.
I slammed the cabinet door hard enough for a stack of patient files to avalanche off the counter. “Unbelievable,” I muttered, snatching them up, only to toss them back down again. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
I grabbed my stethoscope, threw it on the desk. Too loud. Picked it back up. Threw it again.
Kevin poked his head through the door. “Should I come back when the furniture’s still intact?”
“Some ignorant little man just tried to tell me how to do my job,” I snapped, turning to face him. “Do you know how many hours I’ve worked, how many years I’ve studied, how many lives I’ve literally brought into this world with my hands, and he still thinks he knows more than I do because he’s seen a fewYouTube videos?”
Kevin blinked, wisely silent. I kept going.
“He hasn’t shown up to asingleappointment, and then suddenly walks in here deciding that my entire medical career was up for debate because apparently my uterus cancels out my degree. And my hijab—oh, that was the real crime. The man looked at me like I’d wandered in off the street pretending to be a doctor.” I continued pacing, gesturing wildly. “He questionedeverythingI said. Every single part of the birth plan I’d gone over with his wife months ago, like I was a kid playing dress-up in a lab coat.”
My words spilled out faster now. “You know what’s worse? It’s not even the first time. I’ve had patients refuse my care because I’m Muslim, because I’m not what they expect when they hear ‘Dr. Lillian Tariq.’ They look at me and see a terrorist that’ll shove a bomb up their lady parts as soon as they spread their legs.”
He choked on a laugh.
“I’m just—I’m tired, Kevin. I’m so tired.”
He offered a sympathetic smile. “I can tell. You’re giving off major hurricane energy.”
Before I could come up with a proper retort, my phone buzzed on the desk. I glanced at the screen, expecting a reminder or an email about a patient, but it was from Khalifa. The message was short.
The ones you’ve missed.
Attached was a file.
I opened it, and my breath caught. It was an album—hundreds of photos, neatly dated, each one a sunset. Fiery streaks of orange over rooftops, pink haze melting into blue water, clouds blushing at the horizon. One for every day we’d been married.
