A Year, Anyways: Chapter 8
M.R. x reader
Series summary: Robby left for his sabbatical without a thought and youâre left to pick up the pieces. But now heâs back at PTMC and trying desperately to reconnect. Robby learns the truth of how long a year really is.
WC: 4.7k
Tags/Content: unexpected pregnancy, motherhood, past relationship, second chance relationship, slow burn, implied age gap, hurt, angst, reader is high key avoidant, no use of Y/N, possible OC ish, Robby calls reader baby, mental heaviness, hospital inaccuracies, this one is tough guys fair warning, theyâre really bad at communicating, lot of swearing, therapist
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The morning came sooner than you would have liked. Pale grey light filtering in through the windows and the sound of your zoom call ending. Mason was still asleep in his crib when there was a knock on your door.
Ugh. Maybe if you ignored him, you wouldnât have to do this scheduled breakfast. Wasnât last night torture enough?
This was premeditated, you were sure of it.
A way to get in your head.
Your therapist would say otherwise.
Yeah well, fuck him and his four eyes.
You pulled your robe tighter as you shuffled to the door. Robby stood there in a pair of scrubs with his signature zip up hoodie. The odd thing was the pressed white coat over top the hoodie, with his name precisely sewed into it with blue thread.
Yep, this is a terrorist attack.
It was ridiculous really. Who puts their white coat over a hoodie. And since when did Robby know where his white coat was? Why did it kind of look good?
âPlease, donât make me feel any weirder than I already do,â he grumbled, looking everywhere but you. âAdmin has been on my ass about âlooking professionalâ.â
Robby shifted his weight but didnât step inside. You both stand there, waiting for the other to make the first move.
âYou can come in-â
âIs Mason awake-â
You both say at the same time. A blush creeps up Robbyâs neck as you suddenly find the door across the hall very interesting.
âSorry,â he mutters, sagging his shoulders in the way he did when he wanted to seem less imposing.
âOh shut up.â You grumble as you take multiple steps back, leaving the door open for him to enter.
The two of you were acting like two cats who had just been introduced. Hackles raised and ready to bolt at any sudden movement. Maybe it was just you though.
Robby takes a tentative step inside, careful, like heâs waiting for permission to be revoked halfway through. He keeps one hand hooked tightly through the strap of his backpack. He doesnât set it down, just holds it.
Your eye twitches.
âFor fucks sake,â you huff, turning towards the kitchen before you can think too hard about why that bothered you so much. âBe normal.â
You immediately move for the coffee pot, needing to do something that didnât feel like avoiding landmines.
âCoffee?â You call.
âYeah, sure.â He says as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar, âDo you have that-â
âWhy wouldnât I have the vanilla creamer?â You cut him off. Your tone definitely harsher than intended, but FUCK!
He was being weird. This is his fault.
Youâre met with inhumane silence.
âSorry,â you mumble when you see the way he shrinks. Your therapist told you that you were projecting your insecurities onto Robby. It might have had some validity.
You carefully carry the mug over to the counter and place it in front of him. You both watch as the coffee sloshes in the chipped cup.
âTwo sugars and more milk than coffee, right?â You say, avoiding his eyes. You could feel his eyes watching you. Warm and steady in a way that made your skin itch.
God, it pissed you off.
Why? Whatever.
âYeah,â he nods too quickly, swallowing to try to mediate his suddenly dry throat. His large hands engulf the coffee cup. âDonât tell anyone though, itâll ruin my reputation.â
âOkay.â You say immediately, turning back towards the coffee pot. That was a landmine and you had almost fell face first onto it.
Dangerous.
Your eyes dart over to the door of Masonâs nursery. Wake up, please. Instead, you busy yourself with the repetitive nature of making breakfast.
Crack the egg.
Whisk.
Pour into the pan.
Behind you, the barstool creaks softly.
âWould you like some help?â
âNo.â You say automatically.
Silence stretches again.
You hear movement from the other side of the kitchen. A cabinet door opens halfway before immediately clicking shut again.
Robby freezes like heâs been caught committing a crime.
Your shoulders tense instinctively before you glance over. Heâs standing there awkwardly beside the cabinets, one hand still hovering above the handle.
âSorry,â he says quickly. âI was going to grab plates then realized-â he cuts himself off with a tight shrug.
Realized what?
That this wasnât his kitchen?
That last night changed something?
That he didnât know what he was allowed to touch anymore?
The knot in your chest twists painfully.
âWhat the fuck,â you mutter, turning back to the stove before your expression can betray you. âYou know where the plates are.â
For a second, he just looks at you.
Then quietly, âyeah.â
The cabinet door opens again, slower this time.
For a moment, itâs like youâve fallen into an old rhythm. Robby starts the toast and spreads peanut butter onto the slices, while you scoop the eggs onto the plates. He doesnât ask anymore.
That should probably bother you more than it does.
Everything is going as well as to be expected until he reaches around you to pop a bottle into the warmer.
Your entire body locks.
The smell of his cologne and soap his first, clean and familiar enough to make something stab sharply beneath your ribs. Heat radiates from his chest for barely a second before he seems to realize what heâs done.
Robby jerks away so fast his elbow knocks against the counter.
âSorry,â he says immediately.
Again.
God, you were going to lose your fucking mind if he apologized again.
A cry sounds from the nursery. Not a painful one, just one to let you know Mason was awake. You both move to go get him. You both lock eyes for the first time today.
Itâs a stand off.
âFine,â you relent. âGo, Iâll get his breakfast ready.â
Robby disappears behind the nursery door like a man on fire. Meanwhile, you grab Masonâs high chair and the baby food from the cabinet.
You both try to get Mason settled. Hands batting the other out of the way. Robby gives you a weird look when you finally thrust the baby food and spoon at him.
âHis pediatrician said it was fine to start him on soft foods,â you say, rolling your eyes as you hop up onto the counter.
Robby turns the tiny spoon over in his hand like it might explode, âAlready?â
âHeâs four months, not a Victorian orphan.â
His mouth twitches despite himself. âI didnât know⊠I missed a lot apparently.â
And there it is again.
That guilt.
You regret softening enough to notice it.
âWell,â you say bristly, âyouâre here now, so congratulations. Todayâs lesson is applesauce.â
He hums at that and scoops a small amount of applesauce up.
You finish your breakfast before switching with Robby so he can eat his rapidly cooling eggs. Mason immediately starts fussing at the betrayal.
âYeah, yeah,â you mutter. âGod forbid anyone else eats.â
Without thinking too much of it, you swipe a tiny bit of peanut butter from your toast onto Masonâs lip.
Robby glances up immediately.
âHe likes peanut butter?â
âHe likes literally everything,â you snort as Mason happily smacks his lips together. âTiny garbage disposal. Heâd eat drywall if I let him.â
Mason lets out an excited squeal that earns him another microscopic swipe.
Point one mommy.
Robby seemed to finally relax enough to eat once Mason seemed content enough to smear applesauce across most of his face instead of actually eating it.
âGood job,â you told your son with a laugh. âYou managed to get none of that in your mouth.â
Mason squealed.
âSee, he disagrees,â Robby said around a bite of toast.
âHeâs good at that. Heâd make a great lawyer.â You say dryly.
You reached over with the napkin and whipped a streak of applesauce from Masonâs cheek. He immediately made grabby hands for the toast in Robbyâs hand. He turns on those puppy dog eyes youâre sure are genetic.
âAbsolutely not,â you say, scooping him from the high chair and peppering his chubby face with kisses.
Mason protested loudly.
âOh, now youâre starving?â You ask.
He answers with another indignant squeak.
âDrama queen,â Robby laughs.
The sound surprises both of you.
His smile vanishes almost immediately.
Right. Heâs the weird one.
âGets it from his father.â
Robby opened his mouth to argue before Mason lunges for the lapels of his white coat.
Traitor.
You glance at the clock on the wall. Ten after six. Shit.
âDo you mind putting him in the carrier? Iâve got work in twenty.â
You were already backing towards the bedroom before he could answer.
Distance. Good.
âI can always drop him off, you know,â Robby calls.
You freeze halfway through pulling on your scrub top. He was just being helpful. He was always trying to be helpful.
The house was suddenly so quiet you could hear the neighbors moving around next door.
âItâs on my way.â
âMine too.â
âMichael.â
Robby looks like he wants to argue before thinking better of it.
âRight.â
You rush into the living room and grab the carrier, propping it in your hip.
âLet me-â you shove his hands away before he can get near the carrier. You both stare at the other, another stand off.
âIâm just trying to-â he tries to explain with a huff.
âI know.â
âThen why are you looking at me like I suggested arson?â
âBecause every time I turn around, youâre trying to do something for me.â
Robby blinks.
âI was offering to help load our son into your car.â
âExactly.â
Robbyâs eyebrows pinch together as he tries to forks words. Then closes it. Then tries again.
âI genuinely donât know what that means.â
You carry Mason down the multiple flights of stairs and down to the car, Robby on your heels the whole time.
âI switched his daycare.â You say as you snap the carrier into place.
âOh?â
âSt. Maryâs.â You shut the back door. You toss your bag into the passenger seat.
Robby rests his hand on your car door like he had done that rainy night when he had demanded answers.
âAt your work?â
âThey had an opening.â
His jaw works for a second.
âPTMCâs daycare had openings too.â
You cross your arms, squinting at him.
So?
âSt. Maryâs is cheaper.â
âOkay.â
âItâs closer to home.â
âOkay.â
âAnd I can get there in two minutes if they call me.â
His shoulders sink slightly as he takes a step back from your car.
âThat makes sense.â
It did. Youâd only be a moment away. It was practical. Everything in your life was practical. That didnât mean Robby had to like it.
âWeâll see you at pick up,â you grab your door handle. âDonât make it weird.â
âIâm not making it weird.â
âYeah, okay.â
âOkay.â
Mason quickly settled into the new daycare at St. Maryâs. The daycare workers were nice enough. Truthfully, a weight was lifted off of your shoulders knowing he was only minutes away. The downside apparently was having a hidden baby made you hospital gossip.
Between being the transfer resident no one knew much about and Robbyâs lunch performance a few days ago, half the hospital seemed convinced your personal life was public property.
Great.
Apparently, there was a betting pool about who Masonâs father was.
Katie, who had somehow appointed herself your unofficial publishist after the infant seizure case a while back, did her best to intercept the rumors before they reached you.
Unfortunately, Katie was only one woman.
âIâve got those labs you wanted Doc,â she says, bouncing to your side.
âThanks Katie,â you mutter, already skimming the results as you headed to Exam 4.
You werenât trying to be standoffish. Robby had a way of turning your baseline level of irritation into a full-time personality trait.
âWell?â Katie asked.
âWell what?â
âYou going to pretend you donât know what Iâm talking about?â
âI donât know what youâre talking about.â You try speeding up.
âHm,â Katie matched your pace.
You shot her the nastiest look you could muster.
Katie beamed.
âHeard we had a new friend down at the daycare,â she tries, standing way too close. Did she know what a personal bubble was?
âYeah? Whereâd you hear that?â You snap on a pair of gloves.
âOh, I donât know. Maybe from literally everyone?â
Wonderful.
âI went down there during lunch to see my niece," Katie continued, snapping on a pair of gloves she absolutely did not need. âCute kid by the way.â
âThank you.â You lean over the patient, a small kid, to palpate her abdomen.
âVery cute.â
You narrow your eyes.
Katie grinned wider as she grabs the iPad to seem like she was assisting.
âThe daycare ladies seem to love him.â
âMmhm.â You glare at her from over the patient.
Possible bowel obstruction. Wouldnât that be fun?
âAnd I remember, from the other day, a very handsome doctor dropping off lunch for you the other day.â
âIâd like to run a few more test-â
âSame puppy eyes.â
You nearly walked into the supply cart.
Katieâs eyes light up.
âWAIT!â
âKatie, Iâm with a patient-â
âIs it lunch guy baby daddy?â
âI didn't say anything.â You chuck your gloves in the trash and coat your hands in sanitizer.
âLUNCH GUY IS BABY DADDY!â
âKatie.â
She was practically vibrating from excitement. âThe betting pool is going to lose its mind!â
âThereâs no betting pool.â You shoulder the door open. Usually, you wouldn't pray for a trauma but it would give her something better to do.
âThere absolutely is!â
You pinch the bridge of your nose, âI hate this hospital.â
âAw, come on,â Katie bumped your shoulder. âHeâs cute! Well⊠not as cute as that graying doctor that sat with you at the PEDS seminar.â
âJack? Ew!â You slam the chart onto the nursing station.
âNo, listen! Help a girl out-â a blush coats her cheeks as she tears up to make her case.
âThatâs gross.â You shake your head immediately backing away.
âDoctor-â
âNo!â You call as you turn the corner, leaving her to hopefully get back to work.
Itâs usually freezing in the hospital. The whole idea being that diseases canât exist if you freeze them out. Itâs got some merit to it, but really itâs just to make you shake harder than your nerves already are.
Robby is supposed to meet you to pick up Mason from daycare.
Here.
In your hospital.
In front of the people who already knew too much about your life.
Heâs been in your territory once, and look at the trouble itâs already caused.
Breathe.
Obviously, you would rather jump out of a plane with no parachute than do this.
Your therapist claimed this would be good for you. Then, after hearing your response, had to backtrack and correct it in a way where it was good for Mason.
It is good for Mason.
You knew that.
Two parents were better than one.
That didnât mean you had to like it.
Still, you had moved Masonâs daycare to St. Maryâs in an attempt to grasp for some control in your quickly spinning life. Maybe because it was closer. Maybe because it was cheaper. Maybe also to shut up the annoying overly pleasant chirps his old daycare used to send constantly.
Were the updates really bad? Or was it just another spotlight on your private life?
Doesnât matter.
Unfortunately, hospitals operated like oversized high schools with better parking and significantly more student loan debt.
Everyone knew everything.
Or at least they thought they did.
You glance at the clock as your back presses into the wall across from the daycare.
Five more minutes.
Then Robby would walk through the hospital front doors.
Five more minutes until Katie and all the staff spotted him and cashed in their prize money.
Five more minutes until half the staff accidentally found a reason to walk past daycare.
Five more minutes until your life became a spectator sport.
Awesome.
Your phone buzzes.
Robby: Here.
Your stomach drops.
Ridiculous.
You were co-parenting, not diffusing a bomb.
Still, you glance at the door automatically.
Nothing.
The hospital lobby remained exactly as chaotic as it had been thirty seconds ago.
Visitors wandered past, a volunteer pushing a wheelchair, someone dropped a stack of papers near reception.
Then a familiar voice drifted down the hallway.
â⊠Iâm telling you, no one needs that many forms.â
You closed your eyes.
Fuck.
Robby appeared around the corner carrying a coffee carrier in one hand and a half eaten bagel in the other.
A volunteer was laughing at something he said.
A nurse smiled and held the elevator for him.
Traitorous behavior from everyone involved.
The white coat was gone now, leaving him in his black scrubs and stupid hoodie. His hair was mussed like heâs been running his hands through it all day.
He looked tired.
He also looked entirely too comfortable for a man walking into an active gossip situation.
Then he spotted you.
The soft smile appeared immediately, effortless and automatic.
Like he hadnât just spent the last twenty-four hours making things painfully awkward.
Like he hadnât almost kissed you in your sonâs nursery.
Like he hadnât spend breakfast apologizing every five minutes.
Just happy.
Your chest did something painfully unhelpful.
âNo.â
Robby slowed as he reached you. He pops a coffee out of the holder for you.
âWhat?â
âYou canât smile at me like that.â
His eyebrows shot up. âWhat does that mean?â
âI donât know.â You huff as you take the coffee like a lifeline.
âThen why are you saying it?â
Because, unfortunately, neither of you knew how to be normal anymore. Youâd bring it up in your next therapy session.
âCan we just get Mason?â You donât wait for an answer as you tuck tail and hurry for the daycare.
Coward.
The daycare was a world of color. Bright clouds adorned the walls, kids played with multicolored blocks, tiny plastic kitchens sat around the abandoned corner. Mason sat in an offensively bright pink chair gnawing on a toy giraffe.
His entire face lit up the second he spotted you.
Both hands shot into the air as he screeches in greeting.
Well, it wasnât actual words yet, but close enough.
âHi buddy!â You crouch down just as Mason starts kicking his legs excitedly.
Then his attention shifts.
Brown eyes lock onto the man behind you. The squealing somehow doubles in volume.
The daycare worker behind him laughed.
âOh good! Iâm assuming this is dad.â
You both froze.
Mason, however, was practically vibrating in his chair.
âYep,â Robby says after half a beat, offering the daycare worker a tight smile. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder as he extended a hand. âMichael Robinavitch.â
The daycare worker shook it.
âItâs a good thing youâre both here. There are some forms I need you both to fill out.â She quickly hurries off before either of you could respond.
Silence.
You focused very hard on unbuckling Mason from his chair.
Robby focused very hard on Mason.
Neither of you acknowledged the fact that no one had questioned it.
No one asked who he was. No one had looked confused. Just, dad. Like it was obvious.
It probably was.
âHey, little man,â Robby said, crouching beside you. âHow was school?â
Mason immediately launched into an enthusiastic stream of nonsense.
âReally?â Robby asked seriously.
More babbling.
âNo way.â
Another squeal.
You rolled your eyes, âheâs lying to you.â
âIs he?â
âYes.â
Robby nodded thoughtfully.
âThat tracks. He does seem dishonest.â
Mason shrieked with delight.
Drama queen.
âYou lyinâ, Mason?â Robby laughs as he scoops Mason up.
Mason immediately grabbed a fistfull of hoodie strings and shoved them directly towards his mouth.
âSee?â Robby said. âEvidence tampering.â
Somehow, Robby managed to balance Mason in one arm while carrying the coffee container in the other.
Effortlessly.
Like heâd been doing it forever.
It had taken you weeks to learn how to juggle a baby and everything else with him. Robby had been a father for barely a month.
Fucking stupid.
âIâve got the forms here,â the daycare attendant chirped, setting a stack of papers down on a comically small table.
You were already moving.
âIâll handle it.â
The attendant blinked, âso youâll both be signing-â
âYep,â Robby answered easily from behind you.
Your fingers tightened on the pen.
Of course he would.
That was normal.
Fathers signed daycare forms.
Mason chose that moment to smack Robby on the chest.
âBa!â
âThank you,â Robby told him gravely. âI thought so too.â
You have half a mind to tell both of them to wait outside.
You dropped into the tiny plastic chair and instantly regretted it. Your knees hit your chin.
Across from you, Robby tried to fill out forms one handed.
âMiddle name?â He asked.
âYou know his middle name.â
âI know his middle name.â
âThen why are you asking?â
âBecause Iâm making conversation.â
âDonât.â
Mason immediately spotted the half-eaten bagel still sticking out of the paper sleeve in Robbyâs hand.
His entire body lunged.
âOh no,â Robby laughed. âAbsolutely not.â
Mason grabbed it anyway. A tiny chunk tore free on Masonâs fist.
You barely looked up from your chunk of paperwork.
âHe won?â
âHe always wins.â
Mason immediately shoved the bread towards his mouth.
Robby hesitated for all of half a second. Breakfast flashed through his mind.
The peanut butter.
You laughing.
Mason smacking his lips together demanding more.
âHe likes literally everything.â
âTiny garbage disposal,â you mutter.
Robby huffed a laugh. âFine. One bite.â
Robby swiped a microscopic bit of peanut butter from the bagel onto his finger, letting Mason gum on it.
You signed another form without looking up.
Neither of you thought twice about it.
The forms seem to take ages. Every time you thought you were finished, another page appeared.
Emergency contacts.
Authorized pick ups.
Medical releases.
Finally, the three of you escaped daycare and started down the hallway towards the exit. Or at least attempted to.
âDoctor!â
You pretended not to hear it.
âDoctor!â
Katieâs cheery voice carried across the linoleum floor.
God hated you.
âFaster,â you mutter, quickening your pace.
âI have longer legs than you.â Robby huffed.
Mason was unusually quiet from where his cheek was pressed into Robbyâs shoulder. He rubbed his face against the fabric of Robbyâs hoodie.
Once.
Then again.
You frowned. âWhat is he doing?â
Robby glanced down, âProbably tired.â
You donât have time to overthink it as Katieâs bouncy ponytail stops in front of you. âDoctor!â She beams. âOh my goodness, and you must be Dr. Robinavitch.â
âRobby is fine,â he mutters, trying to keep you both moving.
âYou should swing by the nursesâ station-â
You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. âKatie.â
âWhat? Everyone thought lunch guy was a myth.â She exclaims like that made this whole situation better.
âI hate this hospital.â You groan as you tug your bag higher onto your shoulder.
Robby snorts, âAs much as the Pitt?â
Katie points at the three of you then Mason, her mouth falling in an overdramatic gasp. âOkay, wow. He really does look like Dr. Robinavitch.â
âKatie.â You scold.
âRight,â she seems to straighten, âProfessionalism.â
She immediately fails at âprofessionalismâ as she wiggles her finger at Mason. âHi, buddy.â
Mason doesnât smile back. Weird.
âAw,â she coos, âSomeone is tired.â
You look over at Mason. He was still rubbing his cheek. Not lazily.
Persistently.
His little hand drags across his face before he buries it in Robbyâs shoulder. He lets out a wheezing cough.
A knot forms in your stomach.
No.
No, that wasnât there before.
âMason?â
Robby shift him high, âHey, little man.â
Mason turns his head towards his father. Thatâs when you see it.
A cluster of tiny red bumps around his mouth.
Maybe drool rash.
Maybe from rubbing his face.
Maybe-
âRobby.â
Something in your voice makes him look to you immediately. Thatâs when his eyes lock on Mason. You reach for Masonâs chin and gently turn his face towards the light.
The bumps extend across one cheek now. They seem darker now.
Angry.
Raised.
The air in the room seems to get heavy.
No.
No no no no.
Not him.
Mason lets out another wheezy cough.
âWhat did he eat?â Your voice comes out sharper than intended.
Robbyâs eyebrows pinch together.
âNothing abnormal-â
You see it happen. The exact second his face changes. He sees them too.
Not drool rash.
Hives.
âOh, fuck.â
You both move. Feet pounding against the floor as you rush to the emergency department. Katie startles as Robby shoves past her.
The emergency department was three halls away.
Too far.
Farther than it had ever been before.
âMOVE!â
Heads turn as the doors to the trauma bay are kicked open. Masonâs set down on the gurney as the medical team swarms him.
Mason coughs again.
Not that sound.
Youâve heard that sound before.
And for the first time since he walked back into your life, Robby looked scared.
The air leaves your lungs on a harsh woosh. Itâs like you're witnessing everything from outside your own body. All of the horrific traumas youâve seen, and this is the one that takes you out?
Fucking move!
You faintly hear someone call for respiratory. Someone pulling supplies. Someone holding Robby back.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Every instinct in your body screams at you to move.
âWeight?â
You know his weight.
Of course you know his weight.
Why canât you remember it?
âPossible allergen?â
You canât answer. The room is too bright. Too cold. Your son shouldnât be in a cold room. Why canât you move?
Strong arms wrap around you, suddenly your feet arenât on the ground anymore. The doors shut behind you.
No.
They canât do that.
They canât close the doors.
Youâre a god damned doctor.
Mason is in there.
Mason is in there.
âHey,â you donât hear it. Two warm hands grip the sides of your face forcing your eyes away from the doors. âHey, heâs going to be okay.â
Your eyes meet those brown eyes. Those sad sad brown eyes.
Masonâs eyes
No.
Michaelâs.
âHeâs going to be okay,â it sounded like you were underwater.
You faintly hear a voice that sounded like your own say, âDoctorâs canât lie.â
âIâm not,â his voice cracks, âBaby, Iâm not.â
A cry you would know everywhere sounds from trauma room three.
Mason.
Thank fuck.
The sound only lasts for a second before a doctor steps out, pulling off her gloves. You recognize her, one of the attendings.
Good.
âWeâre going to keep him for observation.â She says, âthe reaction responded well.â
Responded well.
Stable.
Observation.
Words you used everyday.
Words you had said to parents a thousand times.
Words that meant absolutely nothing.
The attending says something else, but you donât hear it.
Beside you, Robbyâs grip tightened on your hand. Neither of you let go.
Youâd spent years learning how to save children.
Countless shifts, boards, sacrifices, and missed holidays. Every awful thing.
Mason was twenty feet away.
Twenty feet.
Mason had two parents standing twenty feet away.
Thatâs all.
Twenty fucking feet.
Youâd moved his daycare across town because being closer was supposed to matter.
Youâd picked the hospital daycare because you could get there in two minutes.
Two minutes.
Turns out twenty feet wasnât close enough either.
All this time you had been trying to protect him. And none of it mattered.
Because the worst thing to ever happen to him happened while you were holding the other end of a pen signing daycare paperwork.
You spend years learning how to save children.
Standing outside trauma room three, it didnât mean jack shit.
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