Chapter 20
Rhys
The first thing I notice when I wake on Monday morning is the faint citrus scent of Jayne’s perfume clinging to my skin. We fell asleep tangled up—her head on my chest, my hand in her hair—like we used to a lifetime ago.
This past weekend was good.
But it was also just one weekend.
And we both know it.
Even the fucking mattress knows it.
Jayne deserves more than a fancy dinner and a handful of apologies I’ve repeated too many times.
After breakfast—that feels like a continuation of our good weekend—I head to Camden.
But my mind stays with Jayne.
“You’re managing logistics, not a marriage,” she’d said, and she’d sounded so disappointed.
By lunch, I’ve checked my phone ten times, thumb hovering over a text I won’t send.
Thinking of you.
Too easy.
Too shallow.
Too me.
I need to act. Text messages don’t make her life easier. I know what I need to do.
I’m scared. Fucking terrified.
My whole life has been about becoming a surgeon, and now….
I look for Paul and find him in front of a vending machine, eating a protein bar.
He eyes me like I’m an especially annoying arrhythmia. “What’s wrong with you now?”
“I need to talk.”
“I need to work out.” He balls up the wrapper and sinks it perfectly into the trash. “Let’s go. Before a nurse mistakes us for someone useful.”
We cut through the service hallway toward the hospital gym. It’s mostly empty—just one nurse on a treadmill and a resident half-asleep on a stationary bike. It smells like disinfectant and rubber mats like always.
Paul heads straight for the free weights, cracking his neck like he’s getting ready to fight the barbell.
I grab a bench next to him.
He starts loading plates on a bar with the kind of efficiency only a long-time surgeon-athlete has.
“So?” he asks. “My wife says she had a friendly chat with you, but Claire is always playing psychologist.”
“Yeah.”
“She make you think about things?”
I give a short laugh. “She said you and I have our identities wrapped up in being surgeons.”
He lies back on the bench and lifts the bar. “True.”
He works out for a while, until I finally say. “Jayne and I had a really good weekend.”
He racks the bar and sits up, swiping sweat from his brow with a towel. “That’s good…right?”
“Yeah.” I grip a dumbbell, then set it back down because my palms are already sweating. “We talked, and she told me she’s becoming a version of herself she hates. Bitter. Loud. Invisible.”
Paul whistles low. “Damn.”
“It’s like she’s drowning and I’m sitting on the shore shouting instructions.”
He snorts. “Well, stop shouting and jump the fuck in.”
“I’m trying. But trying isn’t enough.” My throat thickens unexpectedly. “I keep screwing up. I was late for pickups. Missed gymnastics. Missed dinner. Forgot a form. She’s been carrying all of this for years, and I can’t sustain it for a month without falling apart.”
“Look”—Paul settles onto the bench for another set—“you’re a surgeon, Rhys. You can be arrogant, but you’re not stupid. So let’s skip the woe-is-me routine and get to the part where you tell me your plan.”
I watch him lift. Perfect posture. Steady breathing. No wasted movement.
I wish I had that certainty anywhere outside an OR.
“I want to be a good husband. A good father. And also, a good doctor.” I run my hand along the cold metal frame of the bench. “I want all of it. But I’m dropping something every damn day, and Jayne’s the one who gets hit when it falls.”
He racks the bar and stands. “So, stop trying to do everything at once.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Am I supposed to quit? Walk away from the OR? From everything I built?”
“Maybe.” He plants a steady hand on my shoulder. “Look, you’re not the only one who’s allowed ambitions or exhaustion. And more importantly, you need to decide if your job is more sacred than your marriage.”
His hand is heavy, just like his words.
“She’s not asking you to stop being a surgeon,” he adds.
I stare at the scuffed rubber floor, chest tight. “I don’t know how to step back without feeling like I’m failing.”
Paul shrugs. “Then fail forward. Take time. Reset. Be a man first, then a surgeon.”
“You know what that means?”
“Yeah, doing something you’re afraid of,” he says, repeating Claire’s words from the other day.
“That means taking time off.” There. I said the words.
My voice sounds foreign. Small.
Except for a week here and there for vacation, I’ve never taken time off.
Not since med school.
Not since residency.
Not since fellowship.
I’ve been sprinting for decades.
And Jayne’s been holding the finish line for you the whole damn time.
“She said she’s going to quit her job for us,” I whisper. “For me.”
“And how’d that make you feel?”
“Like garbage.” I snort. “And now, you sound like Claire.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He folds his arms.
I draw air into my lungs. “I think….” The words scrape out. “I think I need to walk away from being a surgeon for a while.”
Paul nods once and studies me, as if waiting for the next outburst.
“I crack open people’s chests for a living,” I groan, hands on my hips, “but asking my boss for time off is too much? Jesus.”
“You want your marriage?” He leans in. “Fight for it. You want to be a better father? Be home. You want to stay married to Jayne? Then stop talking about changing and actually change.”
I rake both hands through my hair.
He lowers his voice. “You’re not choosing between your career and your marriage. You’re choosing the order.”
And just like that, everything slots into place.
I am not doing this out of panic or guilt, I realize. I’m doing this out of love, for my wife, my kids, and, whether it feels that way or not, love for myself.
I leave Paul to finish his workout. I go to my office and write a first draft of my official request for a sabbatical.
Then I text Jayne: Thank you for a fantastic weekend. I’m thinking about everything. All of it. I love you.
Then I edit my draft two more times.
Once I’m happy with it, I print it out and head to Dr. Victor Lin’s office. He’s the chief of surgery at Camden and my boss.
When I get there, his office door is open, which is how he likes it unless there is someone in there with him.
Warm lamplight spills into the hall, cutting a soft golden triangle across the floor. He’s at his desk, reading a chart with his glasses perched low on his nose, expression carved in deep lines of concentration.
I knock lightly.
He glances up. “Rhys.” He gestures me in. “Come on in.”
I step inside, trying to keep my limbs from shaking. His office smells faintly of sandalwood and coffee. I close the door and take a seat across from him.
“What’s going on?” he asks, folding his glasses and setting them aside. “You don’t usually look this rattled unless you’ve lost a bet to the anesthesiologists.”
His attempt at humor barely grazes me.
“I need to talk to you about something important.”
He leans back. “Alright.”
As a surgeon, I pride myself on clarity. Precision. Confidence.
Right now, every word feels like I’m trying to stitch with trembling hands.
“I need to take a sabbatical.”
Dr. Lin’s brows lift a fraction—almost imperceptibly—but his gaze sharpens. “A sabbatical.”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Six months.” For now. Longer if needed.
He steeples his fingers, studying me the way he studies imaging before deciding whether to operate.
“May I ask why?”
Dr. Lin and I have known each other for a long time. He’s my boss and mentor. So, I give him the truth. “My marriage is falling apart. And it’s my fault.”
Lin’s expression shifts, not with surprise, but with quiet understanding. “Rhys, being a surgeon takes a toll—”
“This isn’t burnout,” I cut in. “It’s…neglect. Years of it. Jayne’s been carrying everything—our kids, our home, our lives—while I’ve been here. All the damn time. And now she’s breaking. We’re breaking.”
The confession pours out of me like I’ve been holding it behind a dam.
“I keep trying to balance both, and I keep dropping her.” My throat burns. “I’m losing my marriage. And I can’t….” My voice cracks. I force air into my lungs. “I can’t lose her. I can’t lose my family.”
Dr. Lin nods slowly, absorbing every word.
“And I know,” I continue, “that if I keep going like this, I’m going to fail at both my marriage and my job. I need to step back. Reset. Be someone Jayne can count on.”
He takes a moment. Then another. Finally, he leans forward.
“Do you remember your first week as a resident here?” he asks.
It catches me off guard. “I think so.”
“You stayed in the hospital for forty-eight hours straight. I found you asleep on your feet in pre-op.”
Amusement makes my lips curve. “I remember that.”
“And when I told you to go home, you refused. You said, ‘I can’t. If I leave now, someone might need me.’” He gives a wry smile. “I knew then that you’d be brilliant. But I also knew it would cost you.”
“You could’ve told me,” I attempt to lighten the moment. “It would’ve saved me a whole lot of Pepto.”
Dr. Lin grins. “That pink liquid is a doctor’s best friend,” he jokes, and then his expression turns somber. “Medicine asks for everything. But it has no idea when to stop taking. It relies on people like you to give until they’re empty.”
I meet his gaze, mulling over my thoughts.
“I’ve watched you for decades, Rhys.” He steeples his hands. “You’ve given more to this hospital than most surgeons give in a lifetime. So, if you’re telling me you need time, all I can say is take it.”
A breath rushes out of me.
I feel a gamut of emotions.
Relief.
Fear.
Gratitude.
“We’ll redistribute cases. The residents will survive. The department will survive.”
My eyes sting for a second before I blink the tears away.
“Rhys, I’m proud of you.”
I frown. “Huh?”
He laughs, full and loud. “I’m very proud of you,” he continues. “This couldn’t have been easy.”
“No,” I admit. Then I shake my head. “The decision itself was easy. What wasn’t easy was getting honest enough with myself to see it was the only choice I had.”
“Then go take care of your family.” A flicker of compassion crosses his face. “And take care of yourself while you’re at it.”
I stand on unsteady legs. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“You’re a damn good surgeon, Rhys. One of the best I’ve trained.” His lips curve as a teasing warmth enters his gaze. “But excellence isn’t worth much if it costs you your life outside these walls.”
“I’m not going to lose my life,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
“I know you won’t.”
I leave his office, pulling the door closed behind me.
The hallway seems different—quiet and soft—like the hospital is letting me go for a while. Because, as Paul said, I’m not choosing between surgery and my marriage.
I’m choosing the order.
I’m choosing to put my wife first.