PART 1 — THE LUNCH
My husband Daniel and I had been married for twelve years, and during those twelve years, I had learned that being married to an emergency surgeon meant accepting that our plans would never always belong to us. Dinner could be canceled at the last minute, weekends could disappear without warning, and even birthdays or anniversaries sometimes had to compete with an emergency at the hospital. I had learned not to complain because I knew how seriously Daniel took his work. He wasn’t the kind of doctor who could simply walk away when someone needed him, and I had always been proud of the fact that he cared so much.
For most of our marriage, we found a way to make it work. We had two children, a comfortable home, and a routine that wasn’t perfect but felt familiar. If Daniel was called into the hospital, I adjusted. If he missed dinner, I saved him a plate. If he came home after midnight, I stayed awake long enough to make sure he was okay before going back to sleep. I never expected his job to be easy, and I never wanted him to feel guilty for doing something he loved.
But sometime during the previous year, things started changing.
