“For who?”
“For a patient,” he said.
I thought he meant someone at the hospital. Someone else.
I never asked which patient.
I wish I had.
There was one night, about ten years into our marriage, that I remember especially well.
It was three in the morning. I got up to use the bathroom and heard something from his office. Something I’d never heard before.
He was crying.
Not loudly. Just quiet, broken sounds, like he was trying to hold it in.
I opened the door.
“Nigel?”
The sound stopped immediately. I heard papers shuffling. A drawer closing.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was thick. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. A trial failed today. Rats. Six months of work.”
“Oh, honey.”
“It’s fine. It’s fine. I just…” He let out a long breath. “I thought I had it this time.”
I walked over and put my arms around him from behind his chair. His shoulders were shaking.
