I had no idea who he was or why he called me by that name. But after being with him for three years, I learned Lotty was his fiancée, the woman who had left his life, leaving a hole I was unknowingly about to fill.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized after glancing at my name tag. “I mistook you for someone else.”
I shrugged it off, not paying much attention, and continued eating my sandwich.
Before he left, he offered to pay for my meal as an apology. I had not even had the chance to refuse before he was gone.
Later, I used that as a small treat for my coworkers, thinking nothing more of the encounter.
But that would not be the last time I saw him.
That same night, an emergency call came in about a tragic accident. I was on shift and rushed to the ambulance bay, prepared to do whatever I could to help.
As the patient arrived, I saw a middle-aged woman bleeding profusely from a wound that reminded me of the accident that had claimed my own parents' lives.
My heart raced. I knew I had to save her.
With every ounce of skill and determination I had, I worked to stop the bleeding and stabilize her condition.