Chapter 7 - NURSING SCHOOL
For two months after the assault, I nearly quit my prerequisite classes.
Not because I failed.
Because every classroom felt too bright.
People looked at my hair.
Or I thought they did.
A man sitting too close behind me made my heart race.
Storage rooms became impossible.
My anatomy professor, Dr. Patel, noticed.
She asked me to stay after class.
I expected questions.
Instead:
“What accommodations would help you finish?”
I stared.
Not:
What happened?
Not:
Are you sure you can handle this?
What would help?
I told her.
Seat near the exit.
Permission to step out.
Deadline flexibility for court dates.
That was it.
She said:
“Done.”
I passed the semester.
Not brilliantly.
Passed.
That mattered more.
A year later, I entered nursing school.
Rook attended orientation.
He stood at the back wearing a plain black shirt.
No club vest.
I noticed.
“Where’s the leather?”
“In the truck.”
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“Today isn’t about me.”
May you like
My mother would have liked that answer.
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