Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“I explained to them that you need quiet time right now,” David said, his voice calm and reasonable. “I told them the noise and the crowd have been making you anxious.”
The small, familiar kitchen seemed to shrink, the walls closing in until the space between the table and the stove felt like a narrow corridor.
“You are telling our neighbors and our friends that I am mentally unfit,” I said.
David set his pen down with a soft click and looked up, his face filled with a practiced, sorrowful concern.
“I am protecting you, Rachel,” he said. “People talk in a small town, and I would rather they hear the gentle truth from me than jump to their own conclusions when they see you struggling.”
He stood up, gathering his folders into a neat stack, his movements efficient and precise.
“I did this because I love you,” he added, his voice dropping to a whisper.
He walked out of the kitchen, his quiet footsteps fading as he headed down the hallway toward his study.
I walked to the kitchen window and looked out at the street, where the streetlights were beginning to flicker on.
