It’s not that simple, Mark.
Not that simple at all.
I reached a large, solid mahogany door.
On them hung a shiny gold plaque.
Dr. Leo Vance, MD
Internal medicine and nephrology.
I proudly stroked the name.
It was my son’s name – a name born with the tears and prayers of a rejected mother.
I knocked three times, firmly and decisively.
Time to make a plan, son.
Your father came and brought the noose down on us himself.
“Please,” came a deep, authoritative voice from inside.
I opened the mahogany door.
The smell of fresh coffee and lavender air freshener greeted me.
The office was spacious and elegant.
One wall was occupied by a large bookshelf filled with thick medical literature.
The other wall was occupied by a huge window offering a panoramic view of the city.
The morning sun streamed in, warming the room in contrast to the cold hallway outside.
A young man sat behind a large mahogany desk, looking through a stack of documents.
He wore an elegant light blue shirt under a white doctor’s coat.
A stethoscope hung loosely around his neck.
He had a clean-shaven face, a sharp jawline, and intelligent but gentle eyes.
He was Leo – my son.
When he saw me, his serious expression softened.
A warm smile appeared on his lips.
He immediately put down his pen and stood up.
“Mom,” he said quietly.
He came around the desk to greet me.
His step was confident.
If you looked closely, you could still see a slight imbalance in the gait of his right leg – a remnant of the corrective surgery we had five years ago.
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