Working in the same hospital as my father had always felt like a quiet privilege, a small anchor of familiarity in the middle of long, draining shifts.

He had spent nearly three decades there as a nurse, respected for his steady hands, calm presence, and the dry humor he used to put anxious patients at ease. I worked in social services, helping families make sense of diagnoses, paperwork, and decisions no one is ever truly prepared for. Our schedules rarely aligned, so when we did bump into each other in the hallway, we shared a quick hug—nothing dramatic, just a brief check-in that said, I’m here, and I’m okay.

One afternoon, a newly hired nurse happened to see one of those moments.

Continue reading…