She had learned a long time ago that pride did not pay bills.
Neither did being right.
And she could not afford to lose this job.
Not this week.
Not with her mother’s walker making that tired metal squeak every time she moved down the hallway.
Not with the pharmacy balance still waiting.
Not with the landlord leaving polite but firm notes under the door.
At twenty-eight, Tiana Brooks looked younger than she felt.
She was tall, with dark brown skin, tired eyes, and tight black curls pulled into a bun that had started neat that afternoon and was now barely holding on.
Her navy uniform was clean but faded at the seams.
Her apron had two stubborn stains that would not come out no matter how many times she scrubbed it in the sink.
Her fingers carried small burns from hot plates.
Her shoulders carried everything else.
Four years earlier, she had worn a white coat instead of an apron.
She had walked through the halls of Boston Commonwealth School of Medicine with a notebook under one arm and a stethoscope tucked in her pocket.
She had wanted to work with children.
Not because it sounded noble.
Because kids told the truth with their eyes before they ever spoke.
Her professors had noticed.
Especially Dr. Elaine Rodman, who had once pulled Tiana aside after a pediatric rotation and said, “You calm children before you even say a word. That cannot be taught.”
Tiana had carried that sentence like a small light in her pocket.
