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“I understand you’re upset. Please, just give me a minute.”
She folded her arms and let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, I’m sure you understand.
Her words cut sharper than she knew. I took a breath and clenched my fingers to keep them from shaking.
Then the man, whom I assumed was her husband, spoke without even lifting his head.
“Don’t be too hard on her,” he muttered.
“She’s probably just doing this until she finds a husband.”
My stomach turned. A few people across the room glanced over, then quickly looked away. One young resident from the pediatrics wing looked like she wanted to say something, but didn’t.
I stood there without moving, the sandwich limp in my hand.
I wanted to speak up, to defend myself and call out their nastiness, but all I could do was stand there and breathe.
A hush had fallen over the room. Every eye was watching, but no one spoke.
Across the cafeteria, near the coffee vending machine, Dr. Richard stood up.
He was in his early 40s, tall, always well-groomed, with steel-gray hair and a voice that carried. He wasn’t just the head doctor at the hospital; he was someone everyone respected. He was fair, firm, and never tolerated nonsense.
He began walking toward us, a slow, purposeful stride.
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