“I want her to have a wedding she can afford.”
Mom inhaled sharply. “Something has changed in you.”
I stared at the spreadsheet glowing on my monitor. Numbers swam in front of me.
“You’re right,” I said. “Something has.”
She hung up.
For one full minute, I felt free.
Then the guilt came, as reliable as weather.
By Monday, I had twelve missed calls and a text from Valerie that said, I hope your job keeps you warm when you die alone.
I stared at that one for a long time.
Then I went back to work.
The collapse happened on Wednesday at 9:17 p.m., though I only know that because the security report said so.
I remember the office being mostly dark. I remember the hum of the HVAC system and the harsh glow of my monitor. I remember standing to get water and realizing the room had tilted. My left arm tingled. My vision narrowed into a tunnel.
For one strange second, I thought, I don’t have time for this.
Then the floor came up.
When I woke, there was a tube in my nose, tape on my hand, wires on my chest, and a machine beside me counting my heartbeats like it had been hired to supervise my existence.
A nurse with silver hair leaned over me.
“Jessica? Can you hear me?”
I tried to speak. My throat felt scraped raw.
“You’re in the ICU at St. Vincent,” she said. “You collapsed at work. You’re stable now.”
Stable.
That was a word people used for tables, horses, and women who had finally broken in a way that didn’t inconvenience anyone too much.
The nurse’s name was Marlene. She had kind eyes and the brisk competence of someone who had seen every human drama and refused to be impressed by most of them.
“You scared a lot of people,” she said.
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