Thirteen years ago, I became a father in the middle of a night shift.
I was 26, barely six months into my first job as an ER doctor, still learning how to steady my hands when chaos rolled through the doors.
That night, chaos arrived on wheels.
Two adults under white sheets.
And a three-year-old girl sitting upright on a stretcher, eyes wide and searching, as if she could still find her parents somewhere in the noise.
She couldn’t.
They were gone before the ambulance ever reached us.
I wasn’t assigned to stay with her. But when a nurse tried to guide her to another room, she wrapped both arms around mine and refused to let go.
“My name’s Avery,” she whispered. “I’m scared. Please don’t leave.”
I sat with her.
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