I retired at seventy, picked up a strawberry cake, and came home to share a quiet moment with my family, only to find my bags sitting on the porch and the front door locked shut. Something felt deeply, terribly wrong. I’d spent thirty-eight years at that little clinic.
People came and went, the sign out front changed a couple of times, but I stayed. Not because I couldn’t leave. Because I knew my patients needed someone they could count on.
