I glanced at the bills beside my computer.

“What time should I come?”

“Eight. I’ll show you what needs doing.”

***

On Monday, I unpacked merchandise behind his counter.

When a customer asked whether I was his son, I expected a question about the photograph. Instead, she wanted lightbulbs. I nearly laughed with relief.

At lunch, Dad handed me a sandwich and left me alone with my phone.

I’d signed the refusal papers and submitted my account, yet Nora’s accusation kept spreading. People sharing it didn’t know she’d helped arrange the wedding or that she couldn’t prove I’d expected money.

I called Nora and requested a meeting.

She wanted Alicia’s scarf and bandage ring back; she’d placed them in the box after the funeral.

“I’ll bring them. I also need you to tell the hospital what you actually witnessed.”

“I’m not withdrawing my complaint.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

I did not expect forgiveness. I only hoped she could separate what she feared from what she had witnessed, even while continuing to believe I had crossed a line.

She agreed to Saturday. I gathered the keepsakes, lawyer’s notice, and signed refusal.

***

Nora invited me into her kitchen. I opened the box between us, showing her the scarf and ring.

She touched the fabric, then closed the lid.

“I’m not apologizing,” she said. “I had every right to complain.”

“You did.”

Her hand rested on the box.

“I was her doctor,” I said. “I was responsible for my decision. Her asking didn’t change that.”

“So you admit it. You took advantage of her.”

My face warmed. I still couldn’t defend the marriage honestly.

“I should have refused the marriage. But I didn’t marry her for money.”

“You were in her room every day.”

“Yes. You can tell them that. You can also tell them what you knew about the wedding when you helped with it.”

She withdrew her hand.

“The inheritance changed everything.”

“It raised questions. I understand why.”

I passed her the documents. She checked the dates on the notice and refusal.

“This doesn’t prove you didn’t know.”

“No. It shows when I was formally notified and what I did afterward.”

“You want me to say you’re innocent?”

“I want you to say what you saw. You knew it wasn’t a romance. You helped with the ceremony. You don’t know that I expected money.”

She pushed the papers back.

“People will think I’m taking your side.”

“You can keep your concerns in the statement.”

“And you can get out.” Her voice broke. “I thought I was giving her something good. But you…”

I looked at the box, remembering how carefully she’d fixed Alicia’s scarf.

I wanted to reassure her we’d both done the right thing, but I’d spent too many nights trying to believe that myself.

“I thought I was helping too,” I said. “I still made a decision I shouldn’t have made.”

She wiped her face with her sleeve.

“And if they let you go back?” Nora asked. “What happens when someone else asks you for something you shouldn’t give?”

I nearly promised never to repeat the mistake, then recognized another easy reassurance.

“I’ll ask for help before I answer,” I said.

Nora lifted her phone, hesitated, then lowered it.

“What you did was wrong. And I’m not deleting the complaint.”

“I know.”

She opened an email to the hospital reviewer and began writing. Her statement might not save my job.

She described helping with a wedding she’d understood was nonromantic and said she had no firsthand knowledge that I’d anticipated an inheritance. She maintained her concerns about the marriage.

I read her draft twice. It wasn’t an endorsement. I thanked her, and she sent it.

She also corrected her public post, hesitating before publishing.

I left the keepsakes behind. At the door, I saw her opening the box again.

***

Several weeks later, the review concluded.

The hospital considered Nora’s statement, my account, and other evidence. Investigators found no evidence of deliberate financial exploitation, but determined I’d shown poor professional judgment.

I could return with a formal reprimand, mandatory boundary training, and supervised clinical duties.

I read the conditions at my parents’ table.

Dad asked whether I’d accept.

“Yes.”

Mom squeezed my shoulder.

The inheritance refusal was finalized. Alicia had meant well, but I couldn’t accept her gift.

The outcome was neither complete vindication nor the professional disaster I had feared. I would have to regain trust through my conduct, not by repeating how good my intentions had been.

My loans remained, and I’d help at Dad’s shop some Saturdays until I caught up.

***

On my first morning back, I waited outside the ward while Dr. Patel confirmed my arrangements.

A loan reminder appeared on my phone. I put it away and took out my replacement badge.

My hand trembled as I held it to the reader.

It beeped. The door unlocked.

“No more weddings, Lucas.” Patel frowned at me.

I nodded.