“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom!”

“James! So glad you called! Is everything okay?”

“Yes, couldn’t be better, Mom! That’s why I am calling. Di ho bo?”

“We are okay. You didn’t call for two months so we’ve been worried. What time is it there?”

“It’s Friday 5:30 PM. So good morning! I waited until you both were up and before Dad left for work. Sorry, I haven’t called but the time difference is a problem and I have been very busy, but I have good news to share. My residency is going well.”

“Your father will be pleased to hear that. Let me get him on the phone.”

“James, how are you?”

“It is going well, Sir. I wanted to call you and tell you that today, one of my attendings told me I was doing a good job, better than most residents at my stage of training.”

“I see. Dr. Carter told me you are continuing your research in his lab. I read the abstract that you published in the last Surgical Oncology Journal. Good.”

Good? That was more praise than James had ever received from his father.

“Thank you, Sir. We were able to get the results completed much sooner than we expected. Dr. Carter was very pleased.” James tried to press his original point. “So, I am doing well in my residency. Even Dr. Carter told me the chief of pathology was pleased.”

“Ok.”

There was a long pause. What was going on?

“Your mother would like to speak to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Did his father even hear what he said? James heard some fumbling in the background with a muffled, “Pick up the phone.”

His mother returned. “James?”

“Mom, what’s up?”

“James. I need to talk to you about your father. You have not seen him in four years. Some things have happened.”

“Like what, Mom?”

“He’s not doing surgery any longer.”

“What? What happened?”

“James…your father has multiple sclerosis.”

Her voice was steady — nurse as much as mother.

James’ mind spun. “Mom, when did he find out?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He had a viral infection before you left, do you remember that? We thought it was Dengue virus but all the tests ruled it out. We never found out what it was. After he recovered, he was never quite the same. He was having vague symptoms. He thought he was just tired and working too hard. Then two months ago, in the middle of a surgery, he dropped his scalpel.”

James quickly recalled the signs and symptoms of multiple sclerosis. “But Mom, that could happen to any surgeon.”

“NOT your father. He immediately saw the neurologist, Dr. Tan, who ordered an MRI and made the diagnosis.”

James was stunned. Did his father already suspect before James left? Was this why he was so desperate for James to become a surgeon — to carry the torch he could no longer bear?

“Mom, who else knows about this diagnosis?”

“Besides me, the neurologist, and you, no one.”

“Is he still on staff at the hospital?”

“He took a leave of absence. He’s only seeing outpatients.”

James’ chest tightened. He had disappointed his father once. Now this? The weight of legacy pressed harder.

Later that night, James sat alone in his apartment. The photo of his parents stared back. He touched his father’s face, whispering, “Dad…”

The phone call replayed in his mind — his father’s clipped words, his mother’s careful steadiness. It would have been so easy, James thought, just to obey. To follow the path. To be a surgeon.

But he wasn’t. And he couldn’t.

The next day, James met Dr. Carter for a beer at the Anheuser-Busch factory, one of their rituals.

“Cheers!”

Carter sipped, foam lacing his mustache. “James, good work on the abstract. I’m pleased you’ve kept up your research even during residency. You’re just like your father — great hands. Miss seeing you in the lab. But I’m glad you’re happy with pathology.”

“My dad used to sneak me into the OR as a kid. Those were the best times I had with him.” James smiled faintly. “But I never really got to operate until I met you.”

“You know, your father still wants you to be a surgeon.”

“I disappointed him.”

Carter’s hand rested on James’ shoulder. “He wanted you to join him, maybe even take over his practice. When you chose pathology, you shattered his dreams.”

“His dreams,” James whispered. What about mine?

Walking home afterward, the ache still burned. Yet as James climbed the stairwell of Memorial, he caught himself remembering Deanna’s laugh after conference, the way she had leaned over a double-headed scope and told him he was smarter than he believed. That memory steadied him, just enough.

And then there was Wilma — auburn hair gleaming in the histology lab, her teasing voice, “Only for a gentleman.” She was a distraction, an easier path, comfort without judgment. But it lacked what Deanna gave him: belief.

Two women, two different kinds of promises. Anchor or shadow.

His father’s voice, Carter’s hand, Deanna’s laugh, Wilma’s flirtation — all collided in his chest as he unlocked his door.

He wasn’t sure which path forward would hurt less. But he knew one thing: he had chosen pathology, and he would have to live with that choice.

Next Chapter: Chapter 10-Frozen Section