Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
Are you sure you are feeling well enough to make these kinds of decisions? he asked.
The question felt like a physical blow, leaving me without a reply.
I turned back to the window, refusing to let him see the anger in my eyes.
By ten o’clock, the house was completely dark except for the bedside lamps in our master bedroom.
I stood by the dresser, unpinning my hair, watching his reflection in the glass as he folded his trousers over the wooden hanger.
The bedroom was cold, the radiator giving off only a faint, dry hiss.
David sat on the edge of the mattress and sighed, a long, weary sound that filled the quiet space.
I am worried about you, Rachel, he said, looking down at his slippers.
I kept my back to him, my fingers resting on the cool silver of my wedding ring.
Why are you worried? I asked.
Your attachment to that cabin is becoming obsessive, he said, his voice laced with a gentle, heavy sadness.
It is not obsessive to care about my heritage, David.