I scrub in, the ritual both familiar and foreign, each motion mechanical, automatic. Soap to elbow, rinse, repeat. My hands move, but my chest pounds. It should never be this personal.
Kate’s voice echoes in my head: her dry laugh, her lectures, the way she always told us, “Precision is respect. You respect your patient by giving them nothing less than precise care.”
She’s lying in there now. And she asked for me.
The mask covers half my face, but it doesn’t hide the tightness in my jaw. I push through the OR doors, and the brightness slams into me. Drapes are up, monitors beeping, instruments laid out in perfect order.
She’s not under yet, but we don’t have time for pleasantries.
“You gambled with time. You know better.”
“Wouldn’t trust anyone else, Dr. Preston. You’re the best orthopedic spine surgeon I’ve ever trained.” I hold her hand, and she holds mine tighter. “The pupil who outgrew the master. Now fix me. I’ve got three kids waiting at home.”
“Sure, no pressure.” I wink and nod to the anesthesiologist. Once she’s down, I address the room. “All right,” I say, my voice steady when nothing else is. “Let’s move. Exposure first. Decompress fast. Stabilize clean.”
For the next eight hours, I excel in the only other place I belong.
Gloved hands pass instruments into mine, metal cold, grip steady.
The world outside disappears. There’s only the spine in front of me—shattered, unstable, begging to be rebuilt.
Once the surgery is over and Kate is out of danger, I walk her to the Post-Anesthesia Care Unit and stay until one of my interns takes the chair at her side. He’ll sit there as long as it takes for the drugs to wear off. I pull my favorite nurse onto the case too, and tell them to page me the second she starts to wake. Then I text our head of neuro with an update and let him know I’ll need him later for her follow-up exams.
I unlock my office and step into my second home. Feels like I never left. Before sitting down, I grab my phone and scroll through Mia’s last five messages—updates, photos, little glimpses of their day. I exhale, shoulders dropping back where they belong.
The tempting thought returns.This could work.
I sink into my chair and check the time. Almost four. They’re home, buried in homework, and judging by the pictures, surrounded by far too many plushies, if you ask me. Apparently, Lily’s teacher called Mia earlier; said she didn’t want to stay for the after-school program, so Mia picked her up. My Sunshine still hasn’t cleared her skies, but she knew where to go. Home. And she trusted Mia enough to make the call.
This puts me at ease. Enough to type an e-mail to the board, announcing the date of my return and new working hours. Emergencies aside, I’ll be having breakfast and taking my child to school every day. I'll also meet her at home by 6:30 p.m.
I’ve trained my team well. April has more than provenherself. Callie has stepped up and above whenever April was out. I trust them without question.
No more missed moments and milestones. I’ll be there, watching my daughter grow up, being part of her daily life, building memories and the kind of bond only time can forge. The kind I’ll never again let work take from me.
My new schedule isn’t as neat—or anywhere near as colorful—as the ones Mia makes. At first, I picture her throwing a fit, trying to wedge PT, therapy, quiet time, and everything else she planned into my new hours.
But that image fades fast. What comes instead is her biggest smile. The one that always makes me wonder if it hurts—lips stretched wide enough to show her back teeth, cheeks lifted so high her eyes nearly disappear.
Yeah. That’s what she’ll give me when she finds out I’m going back to work.
April and Callie barge in without knocking—what a shocker—and I wipe the grin off my face.
They both start talking at once, but April wins the floor with a hand on Calista’s arm. “This is more than proof that you’re ready?—”
“I’ve sent the board an email. I’ll oversee Kate’s recovery this week and be back officially next Monday. A slower transition for Lily’s sake.”
“I can accept that,” Callie declares, and I can’t help laughing at her. She cracks up too, then drops into the chair across from me.
April stays standing, hands braced on the backrest. “That’s amazing, Pres.” Relief softens her more than happiness does. “It’ll be so good to have you back.”
“And about time,” Callie throws in. Of course she does.
“Now leave, both of you. I need to check in with my gir—l” I bite off the plural before it betrays me and keep my eyes on the phone.
“Which one?” Cal teases, and I hate her for seeing right through me.
“Cut it out. Not funny. Someone will sit at Kate’s bedside for the next forty-eight hours. Keep winding me up, and I’ll assume you’re volunteering.”
