My mother had set the table when I arrived.
There was rice in a serving bowl, vegetables on a plate, and a glass of water waiting beside my usual seat.
For a few minutes, I let myself pretend nothing had changed.
Dad asked whether traffic had been bad.
Mom told me about a customer who had come into the shop looking for something they didn't sell.
I listened and nodded.
I was grateful they hadn't started asking questions the moment I walked through the door.
Then Dad put down his fork.
"How did things go today?"
I looked at the food.
"Not well."
Mom stopped moving her spoon.
"What happened?"
I told them about the complaint, the inheritance letter, and Dr. Patel asking for my badge.
I tried to keep the explanation orderly.
I explained that Alicia had asked me to marry her, that I had transferred her care, and that I hadn't known about the money.
I told them I had contacted the lawyer to decline it.
Dad listened without interrupting.
Mom kept her eyes on me, occasionally glancing down at her plate.
When I finished, neither of them spoke right away.
Then Mom asked the question I had been hoping she wouldn't.
"Lucas, who was Alicia to you?"
"She was my patient."
"Only your patient?"
I rubbed my thumb against the edge of my napkin.
"I cared about her."
Mom waited.
"I mean, I wanted her to be happy. She was a good person."
"That isn't quite what I asked."
I knew what she meant.
I had been trying to describe Alicia in a way that made the marriage seem understandable without making it sound romantic.
But the truth was more complicated than either explanation.
I had felt protective of her.
I had liked talking to her.
I had wanted to ease the fear and disappointment that surrounded her final days.
None of those feelings changed the fact that I was her doctor when she asked me to marry her.
Dad leaned back in his chair.
"How old was she?"
"Eighteen."
His eyebrows rose.
"Eighteen?"
I nodded.
He set his fork down.
"Lucas, why would you marry an eighteen-year-old patient?"
"She was dying, Dad."
The answer came out sharper than I intended.
He looked at me for a moment.
"I understand that."
"No, I don't think you do. She had almost no control over anything anymore. She couldn't decide what treatment would work or how much time she had. She wanted to choose one thing for herself."
Mom folded her napkin.
"And you thought marrying her was the right thing to do?"
I opened my mouth.
I had a dozen explanations ready.
I could tell them about her smile during the ceremony, the bandage rings, and the way Nora had thanked me afterward.
I could tell them how happy Alicia had looked.
But I couldn't honestly say those details answered my mother's question.
"I thought it would make her happy."
Mom's expression softened.
"That doesn't mean it was the right choice."
I looked down.
The words hurt because I had already begun to suspect the same thing.
Dad took a drink of water.
"Did you think about what the hospital would say?"
"I transferred her care."
"That's not what I asked."
I shook my head.
"No. Not enough."
He nodded slowly.
"Then you know what you did wrong."
I wanted him to say something more comforting.
I wanted him to tell me that my intentions mattered, that a doctor could make a difficult choice without becoming a bad person, and that the hospital would eventually understand.
Instead, he left me with the truth I had been avoiding.
My intentions were real.
So were my responsibilities.
Mom reached across the table and touched my wrist.
"Did you marry her because you expected to receive money?"
"No."
I answered immediately.
Then I took a breath.
"I didn't know about the inheritance. I only found out after the funeral."
She watched my face.
"I believe you."
I hadn't realized how much I needed to hear that until she said it.
Dad nodded too.
"We believe you, son. But that doesn't make the marriage a good decision."
I swallowed.
"I know."
It was the first time I had said those words without trying to follow them with a defense.
We finished dinner more quietly.
Mom packed some leftovers for me, even though I told her I had food at home. She put them into a container and pressed the lid down firmly.
Dad walked me to the door.
"If you need help with bills while this gets sorted out, tell me."
"I'll manage."
He looked at me.
"That wasn't an offer you needed to argue with."
I let out a tired breath.
"All right."
He put a hand on my shoulder.
"You don't have to solve everything tonight."
I nodded, though I knew I would probably spend the night trying.
At home, I opened my laptop and began preparing the account the hospital had requested.
I started with the facts.
Alicia had been my patient.
Her treatment had stopped working.
She had asked me to marry her.
I had agreed.
I had transferred her care before the ceremony.
Then I reached the part where I needed to explain why.
I wrote that Alicia had been determined to make a final choice for herself.
I wrote that I wanted to give her a moment of happiness.
I wrote that I believed the wedding would help her.
Then I read the paragraph again.
It sounded as if I had been swept along by her wishes, as if the decision had somehow happened to me.
I deleted the last sentence.
Alicia had asked.
I had agreed.
No one had forced me.
I had been the doctor, and I had been the person responsible for understanding what that meant.
I rewrote the account.
This time, I explained that I had wanted to help her, but that I had not sought advice from Dr. Patel before agreeing to the marriage.
I acknowledged that transferring her care had not resolved the underlying professional concern.
The words were difficult to type.
I wanted to soften them.
I wanted to add that the ceremony had been brief, that there had been no romance, and that I had never expected any financial benefit.
Those facts mattered, but I could not use them to make my decision sound unavoidable.
I finished the account late that night.
Before submitting it, I read it one last time.
Then I sent it to the hospital reviewer.
The confirmation appeared on the screen.
I leaned back in my chair.
For the first time since the funeral, I had stopped trying to make the story sound better than it was.
I still hoped the hospital would let me return.
But I knew I couldn't ask for that by pretending I had made no mistake.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: Nora Posted Our Wedding Photograph for Everyone to Judge, and I Had to Decide Whether Defending Myself Was Worth Exposing Alicia’s Last Private Words
I Thought One Small Act of Kindness Could Change Her Final Days, Until I Realized I Had Never Asked What It Might Cost Me
Part 5 of 12
