Chapter Twenty-Two #2
I blinked, dragging myself out of the haze that had been my own head—and, if I was honest, the orbit of Khalifa that I seemed incapable of escaping lately.
“My what?” I asked, realizing too late how dazed I sounded.
He raised an eyebrow. “Your six o’clock. The patient you were supposed to see ten minutes ago—ringing any bells, Dr. T?”
Right. Work. My actual life. The one that didn’t revolve around a man who drove me to the brink of madness and then had the audacity to make me dinner afterward.
I straightened in my chair, shoving the lingering warmth into a dark corner of my mind. “Send her in,” I said, pretending like I hadn’t just spent the last five minutes daydreaming about my husband’s laugh.
He stayed, sipping his coffee, eyes glinting. “You good?”
“I’m fine,” I said, a little too quickly. “Why?”
“You were smiling.”
“I wasn’t smiling.”
“Oh, you were,” he said, backing away, grin widening. “Which means either you got good news, or you were thinking about your rude, stubborn, and emotionally unavailable husband.”
“Kevin,” I warned.
He held up his free hand in surrender, but his smirk said this conversation isn’t over.
“I got him a cat,” I blurted before he could leave.
A beat passed.
“You got your husband a cat?”
“Yes.”
He tilted his head. “You hate cats.”
“I know.”
“You’re allergic.”
“I. know,” I spat through clenched teeth.
He burst into laughter. I grabbed the stapler off my desk and hurled it at him on instinct, but he was already ducking away, still chuckling as he disappeared down the hall, calling, “Alright, Mrs. Thompson, the doctor will see you now!”
I forced myself to inhale, exhale, to tuck the tiny flutters under lock and key just as the door opened.
“Hi, Jennie,” I said, rising from my chair. “How are you doing?”
Her husband stood behind her unexpectedly, his expression startled.
“Mr. Thompson. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze shifted to his wife. “I thought you said your OB was named Lilly?”
I froze for a fraction of a second. “It is. Dr. Lillian Tariq.”
The smile on his face disappeared entirely, a flicker of suspicion settling into his stare.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Thompson?”
He shook his head, but the strain in his jaw betrayed the lie.
I didn’t need to be psychic to know what the issue was.
That subtle tightening around his eyes, his glare lingering on the fabric wrapped around my head, the unfamiliarity he clearly hadn’t prepared himself for—it all screamed it without him saying a word.
My chest constricted with a familiar pang.
This wasn’t the first time I’d had a patient refuse my care because I was Muslim, because of the hijab, because of me.
Racism wasn’t new—it had shown up in whispered doubts, in hesitations, in people’s eyes darting away instead of meeting mine.
But I swallowed it down, letting my excellency speak louder than his prejudice ever could.
“Well,” I said, gesturing for them to sit down, “let’s get started on your birth plan for the twins, shall we?” I flipped open her chart. “Everything we discussed last time is here, and a few updates that I think will make the process smoother for you.”
Her eyes sparkled, and she nodded eagerly. “Yes, that sounds great.”
I had just opened my mouth to continue when he cut in.
“Are you a Canadian citizen?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“It’s important,” he said evenly, “that the person handling my wife and children is a fellow Canadian.”
For a split second, something hot ran up my spine. As if citizenship conferred medical talent. As if maple syrup in my veins would somehow improve my surgical precision.
“I was born and raised in Vancouver,” I said calmly. “So yes, I’m a Canadian citizen.”
He made a small, noncommittal noise.
I turned back to Jennie with a reassuring smile. “As I was saying—”
“And where did you get your medical degree?”
“The University of British Columbia. Where did you get yours?”
He stiffened. “I’m not a doctor.”
“Fantastic,” I said brightly. “Then let’s keep the questions strictly medical and continue going over your wife’s birth plan. Given the twins’ positioning, induction gives us a bit more control over—”
Mr. Thompson’s hand shot up. “Wait,” he said. “Why do you want to induce labor? Isn’t natural always better?”
I took a deep breath. “Induction is sometimes medically necessary, especially with twins. We monitor growth, position, and maternal health, and if any factor suggests early delivery is safer, we recommend induction.”
He frowned. “But isn’t there a risk?”
“Yes, there’s always risk. But we weigh the risks against the benefits. That’s what we do in medicine.”
He leaned forward, arms crossed, skepticism etched on every line of his face. “And the epidural—are you sure it’s safe? I read something online—”
“I’ve read plenty of things online too, Mr. Thompson,” I interrupted gently. “Medical decisions aren’t made on random articles. They’re made on evidence, experience, and your wife’s health. The epidural is safe in twin pregnancies under our care, and we’ll monitor closely.”
He opened his mouth again, then paused, looking at his wife for reassurance. She smiled faintly at me, her hand resting on her bump. I let it slide for now, inhaling slowly to keep the bite from my tone.
“With twins, we may recommend specific positions during delivery. Side-lying, semi-reclined, sometimes even hands-and-knees if the baby is breech. The goal is to reduce complications for both Jennie and the babies.”
He interrupted again. “Can’t she just stand? Or squat?”
I pressed my lips together and let out the tiniest exhale through my nose.
“Squatting can help in some singleton births, but with twins, positioning is more complex. Safety is the priority.” I hesitated for a second before continuing.
“Mr. Thompson, I appreciate your concern, but your wife’s body, her babies, and the medical plan are my responsibility.
I will answer your questions, of course, but please trust that I have the expertise to guide you through this safely. ”
He nodded curtly and finally leaned back, mumbling something under his breath.
By the time the appointment ended, the charts updated, the questions answered—though not all of them, not fully—I was exhausted in a way I didn’t usually get with work.
Exhausted because I had to fight not just for their babies’ safety, but for the recognition of my authority, my competence, my presence.
I slammed the cabinet door hard enough for a stack of patient files to avalanche off the counter. “Unbelievable,” I muttered, snatching them up, only to toss them back down again. “Absolutely unbelievable.”
I grabbed my stethoscope, threw it on the desk. Too loud. Picked it back up. Threw it again.
Kevin poked his head through the door. “Should I come back when the furniture’s still intact?”
“Some ignorant little man just tried to tell me how to do my job,” I snapped, turning to face him.
“Do you know how many hours I’ve worked, how many years I’ve studied, how many lives I’ve literally brought into this world with my hands, and he still thinks he knows more than I do because he’s seen a few YouTube videos? ”
Kevin blinked, wisely silent. I kept going.
“He hasn’t shown up to a single appointment, and then suddenly walks in here deciding that my entire medical career was up for debate because apparently my uterus cancels out my degree.
And my hijab—oh, that was the real crime.
The man looked at me like I’d wandered in off the street pretending to be a doctor.
” I continued pacing, gesturing wildly. “He questioned everything I said. Every single part of the birth plan I’d gone over with his wife months ago, like I was a kid playing dress-up in a lab coat. ”
My words spilled out faster now. “You know what’s worse?
It’s not even the first time. I’ve had patients refuse my care because I’m Muslim, because I’m not what they expect when they hear ‘Dr. Lillian Tariq.’ They look at me and see a terrorist that’ll shove a bomb up their lady parts as soon as they spread their legs. ”
He choked on a laugh.
“I’m just—I’m tired, Kevin. I’m so tired.”
He offered a sympathetic smile. “I can tell. You’re giving off major hurricane energy.”
Before I could come up with a proper retort, my phone buzzed on the desk. I glanced at the screen, expecting a reminder or an email about a patient, but it was from Khalifa. The message was short.
The ones you’ve missed.
Attached was a file.
I opened it, and my breath caught. It was an album—hundreds of photos, neatly dated, each one a sunset. Fiery streaks of orange over rooftops, pink haze melting into blue water, clouds blushing at the horizon. One for every day we’d been married.
He’d...taken them for me. Because he knew I hated missing sunsets. Because every evening, while I was at work or on call or too exhausted to step outside, he’d been saving them for me, bottling light I hadn’t even known I’d lost.
I could barely picture him doing it—Khalifa, who probably hadn’t opened his camera app since the day he bought his phone, standing in public, squinting at the screen like it was some complex machine.
Maybe crouching a little, maybe tilting his head, trying to get the “right angle.” Maybe being seen by actual humans.
The thought made my chest hurt in a ridiculous, swoony way.
Kevin leaned over, peeking at my phone. “Oh my God,” he said slowly. “Is that...a sunset album? Did your brooding, emotionally buffering husband just send you—”
“Don’t say it.”
He grinned, full-on delighted. “—a digital love letter?”
“Kevin.”
“Oh, this is adorable,” he said, laughing. “He’s a romantic! A silent-sunset-picture-taking romantic!”
I rolled my eyes, but my throat was tight. “He’s just...being nice.”
Kevin snorted. “Right.”
But I wasn’t listening anymore. My eyes were still on the last photo—the most recent one. The sky was a deep lavender, a streak of gold cutting through the center, and in the corner, his shadow toward the horizon.
And I thought, maybe I never really saw him before now.