Sarah Margaret Thompson.
I hadn’t heard that name spoken aloud in 40 years. But hearing it had awakened something in me that I thought was dead and buried.
When dawn finally crept through our bedroom curtains, I slipped quietly out of bed and padded down to the kitchen. Elena wouldn’t arrive for another two hours, and Wesley never came downstairs before 7:30. For once, I had the house to myself.
I made coffee with shaking hands and sat at our granite kitchen island, staring out at the garden I had spent years perfecting. Every flower, every shrub, every carefully planned border was a testament to the life I had built with Wesley. Beautiful, controlled, and ultimately empty.
The coffee was bitter.
Or maybe that was just the taste of regret in my mouth.
I found myself remembering things I had forced myself to forget. Like the way Harrison used to study, completely focused, but always ready to help anyone who was struggling. He had this gift for explaining complex concepts in ways that made them crystal clear. More than once, he had helped me through particularly difficult anatomy or pharmacology problems.
But it was more than his academic brilliance that had drawn me to him. Harrison genuinely cared about his future patients in a way that went beyond textbook knowledge. He would stay after lectures to ask professors about cutting-edge research, not to show off, but because he was genuinely passionate about finding better ways to heal people.
Wesley, even then, had been different. Polished, confident, already thinking like an established doctor rather than a student still learning. When he approached me after that lecture on patient-centered care, he hadn’t been interested in discussing the medical concepts. He had been interested in me.
“You’re wasting your passion on pediatrics,” he had told me during our third date as we sat in an expensive restaurant I never could have afforded on my student budget. “Children can’t appreciate the complexity of medical intervention the way adults can. There’s no intellectual challenge there.”
I had tried to explain that it wasn’t about intellectual challenge for me. It was about helping the most vulnerable patients, the ones who couldn’t advocate for themselves.
But Wesley had smiled that indulgent smile and changed the subject.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs pulled me back to the present. Wesley appeared in the kitchen doorway, already dressed in his perfectly pressed shirt and tie, his silver hair styled exactly the way it had been for the past 20 years.
“You’re up early,” he observed, moving toward the coffee maker.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He poured his coffee with the same precise movements he brought to everything in his life. “I’m not surprised. Last night was challenging.”
Challenging.
That was one word for it.
Wesley sat across from me at the island, his expression carefully neutral. “I’ve been thinking about what happened at the gala, about your reaction to seeing that man.”
“Harrison,” I said quietly. “His name is Harrison.”
Wesley’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes, Harrison Mitchell. I did some research this morning.”
Of course he had. Wesley never left anything to chance. Never entered any situation without gathering all available information.
“He’s quite successful,” Wesley continued, his tone conversational but with an undercurrent I couldn’t quite identify. “Built Mitchell Pharmaceuticals from nothing after completing his residency. Never married, no children, devoted his entire life to his work.”
The way he said it made it sound like a character flaw, a life half-lived.
“Obsessive personalities often struggle with personal relationships,” Wesley added, taking a sip of his coffee. “Too focused on their own ambitions to really invest in other people.”
I said nothing, but something inside me bristled at his characterization of Harrison. The man I remembered had been anything but obsessive or selfish. He had been driven, yes, but always in service of something larger than himself.
“I also made some calls about this supposed job offer,” Wesley continued.
My coffee cup stopped halfway to my lips. “What kind of calls?”
“I spoke with Dr. Patterson, the hospital administrator. Apparently, Mr. Mitchell did mention wanting to hire someone to oversee the integration of pediatric services, but it was just a passing comment. Nothing official, nothing concrete. Certainly not the kind of position someone with your background could realistically handle.”
Each word was chosen carefully, designed to deflate any hope I might have harbored about Harrison’s offer being real.
