When I registered my pregnancy at his hospital, he insisted on keeping my identity private, worried that colleagues would think he was abusing his position to help me.
I knocked on his office door, but I got no answer. So, I pushed it open to find the place in disarray—papers scattered across the floor, drawers hanging open.
Out of habit, I began to tidy up, but then heard a startled cry behind me.
“Oh my God! What have you done to Doctor Andrews’s office?”
I turned. Nancy stood in the doorway, a tray of medical vials in her hands. She looked like she had caught a thief.
I opened my mouth to explain, but she was already lunging toward me.
I tried to defend myself. In the struggle, the medicine tray in Nancy’s hands tipped over. Glass vials shattered across the floor and expensive liquid splattered in every direction.
By then, a small crowd of nurses had gathered outside the door. Two of them ran to call security; the rest stayed to watch, whispering just loud enough for me to hear.
“She couldn’t find Dr. Andrews, so she decided to steal something? Pathetic.”
“Doing things like this at her age… no wonder she’ll never have kids.”