She’s looking at me with that intense expression she gets sometimes.
The one that makes me feel like she can read me as easily as an open book.
“You were scared,” she says quietly. “Not for yourself. For him.”
I don’t answer.
The kettle whistles softly, and Mary stands to pour our tea.
“That’s why you left Edinburgh, isn’t it? Something went wrong.”
My heart starts racing.
I want to stand up.
Leave.
End this conversation immediately.
“A patient died,” I finally admit. “While she was under my care.”
I take a sip of tea.
It’s too hot, but I don’t care.
Mary says nothing.
She waits.
“I... minimized a symptom. At the time, it didn’t seem particularly alarming, so I delayed further testing. There wasn’t enough for an official complaint, but enough that…”
I stop.
Swallow hard.
“She could’ve been saved. If I’d paid closer attention. If I’d trusted my instincts instead of following protocol. If I had…”
“Finn, stop.”
Her voice is gentle but firm.
I look at her, expecting disgust.
Disappointment.
Instead, I find neither.
Something inside me loosens unexpectedly, and I realize with startling clarity that Mary’s opinion matters far more to me than it should.
“You can’t do this to yourself,” she says softly.
“I have to. Because if I don’t, I might forget. And if I forget, I could make the same mistake again. Tonight, when Mrs. Campbell walked in with Robbie, all I could see was…”
I stop, unable to finish the sentence.
Mary reaches across the table.
She hesitates for one brief second before placing her hand over mine.
