schedules in giant letters.
Explaining what symptoms required immediate help and what could wait until morning.
Dad had once told me Grandpa believed:
The appointment isn’t over just because the patient leaves the room.
Dad slowly looked around the training room.
Then back at the bag.
“That still doesn’t mean leaving medical school was right.”
For a moment, I felt numb.
“What I did?”
“You made a major decision in the middle of a crisis. You tied your future to whether Elliot recovered.”
His voice softened.
“I was terrified for you.”
That stopped me.
For five years, I had believed his silence came from shame.
Disappointment.
Maybe even contempt.
Now, for the first time, I heard fear.
But fear didn’t excuse what happened afterward.
“You were allowed to be scared,” I said. “You were allowed to believe I was making a mistake.”
He looked at me.
“But you didn’t just
