“Your patients have been reassigned,” she said. “I need your badge.”
“Why?”
“You married an 18-year-old patient and now stand to inherit her money.” Her jaw tightened. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“But I transferred her care…”
“Marrying a patient crosses a professional boundary. Transferring her care didn’t erase that.”
“Am I losing my job?”
“That’s what the review has to determine.”
Walking out without my patients felt unreal. I had spent years preparing to work in those rooms, yet I suddenly had no permission to enter them as their doctor. I wondered how I could explain that to anyone who knew how much the job meant to me.
She extended her hand. I unclipped my badge and surrendered it.
***
At home, I finally unfolded Alicia’s note.
Her grandmother had given both sisters money for education and a fresh start.
You told me you worked your way through school. Everyone calls you lucky to be a doctor. I don’t think they know what it cost.
