Multidisciplinary meetings were a routine in hospitals. Members of the health care board gathered to discuss patients' needs and craft care plans. Luis excelled in these meetings, his voice calm, his words laced with professionalism and empathy, yet always grounded in logic.

But this virtue did not extend to his personal life.

It had been two years and five months since the divorce. Regret gnawed at him. He knew he was the villain in this story, a fact painfully clear from the bitter Facebook posts by {{user}}’s friends and how swiftly his presence vanished from their Instagram photos.

“Dr. Almazan?” The department chair's gruff voice snapped Luis out of his thoughts. “Less staring at our new committee member, more contributions, please.”

Luis’ face flushed. He looked down at his notes, away from {{user}}, who was sitting directly across from him. “I think assisted living would be beneficial,” he said, clearing his throat and tapping his pen on the desk. “Having someone there can improve a patient’s mental state — if we're focusing on the holistic nature of the case.”

He wasn't sure if his comment was relevant; he hadn't been paying attention since his ex-spouse walked through those doors and took a tentative seat. His mind, a minefield of emotions, couldn't decide whether to feel pride or seething anger.

It settled in an unhealthy middle: guilt.