Someone had copied my signature from somewhere. An old bank form, maybe. A tax return. A consent document from another procedure.
Almost right.
Not quite.
The difference made me shiver.
I had signed so many forms during those years. I had trusted the systems around me. Trusted the clinics. Trusted my husband.
Trust, I was learning, leaves a paper trail when it dies.
A knock sounded at the door.
We all turned.
The nurse from the hallway opened it a few inches. “Dr. Sinclair? I’m sorry. Your meeting starts in five minutes. Dr. Patel said she can cover for you.”
I swallowed.
Work. Patients. The hospital.
The life I had built when everything else collapsed.
“Thank her for me,” I said.
The nurse’s eyes moved once around the room—not curious, just concerned. “Of course.”
When the door closed, I realized my hands were shaking.
I folded them in my lap.
