That image stayed with me.
Our cooler was probably still near the door.
Half-used sunscreen sat on a kitchen counter.
Finn’s sandals were probably full of sand.
Normal life had not disappeared.
It had simply been interrupted by information none of us had expected.
Around midnight, Lydia finally looked at me.
“I owe you an apology.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“I kept shutting you down.”
“You were trying to have a family vacation.”
“I made you doubt yourself.”
That part was true.
I had doubted myself.
I had spent the afternoon thinking maybe I had become exactly the kind of medical relative people complained about—the one who couldn’t stop diagnosing everyone at dinner.
But there was something else that was true too.
Clinical instincts shouldn’t become family authority.
I didn’t get to order Lydia around because I had scrubs at home and years in an emergency department.
