cassie likes looking after patients like you.

she likes to think she’s a caring doctor. she knows she’s empathetic, and she has enough life experience to recognise the struggles of people. a single mom and an ex-addict, now she’s a third year resident and thriving. but her past gives her a different perspective.

she walks into the room.

the first thing that registers is the crying baby on your lap. you’re trying to soothe her and rock her, but there’s no luck. you’re murmuring to her, bouncing her on your knee.

it’s clear that you’re overwhelmed. young, too. your hair is braided, you’re flushed and you look like you’re on the verge of tears. if cassie had to guess, your eighteen, nineteen, twenty at a push.

cassie’s been there. she’s a single mom — she knows the struggle. remembers the sleepless nights with harrison and how overwhelmed she got. she would cry at everything and fall asleep on the toilet seat.

you explain that your daughter is struggling — making choking noises while eating, throwing up so much after eating, intense crying. cassie knows it’s textbook reflux, but you look overwhelmed and genuinely worried, so she takes your daughter from you to take a proper look.

cassie checks her over. there’s no signs of neglect or abuse, which she didn’t expect, but had to check for anyways. cassie checks temperature, eyes, ears. she soothes the baby and smooths her little strands of hairs back.

she stops crying.

you swallow. look at them. “she likes you more than me.” you joke weakly.

cassie offers a small smile. a kind one. she can’t help but see a bit of herself in you.