Page 17 of Burned By the Broken Doctor

“Liam? Finally! I thought I was getting your voicemail,” she replies, a hint of annoyance laced in her usually chirpy tone.

“Just at work,” I mumble, already regretting picking up.

“At work, huh?” she says, drawing out the words. “You sound tense. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” I mutter, drumming my fingers against the table. This is the dance we always do—a delicate waltz around the truth, neither of us willing to truly address the elephant in the room.

“Then why did it take you forever to answer?” she presses. “You wouldn't be avoiding your dear old mother, would you?”

I force a chuckle. “No, Mom, of course not. Just busy.” Busy avoiding unnecessary arguments, more like.

“Busy with what?” she persists. “Haven't heard from you in ages. It's your fault, you know. You should call your mother more often.”

She has a point, but the timing always feels…off. There's an agenda behind her calls, a hidden motive that often involves her new husband and his ever-expanding network of connections.

“I know, I know,” I say placatingly. “Just been a bit swamped lately. Setting up here and all that.”

“Here?” she echoes. “Is everything alright there? You haven't second-guessed that decision, have you?”

Here—meaning Harmony Creek, the small, sleepy town I practically ran away from after graduation. The place my mother considers a career graveyard for a brilliant young doctor like me.

“No, no,” I assure her, though a pang of doubt flickers through me. “Everything's good. Just a different pace, that's all.”

“A different pace?” she scoffs. “You mean a snail's pace! Liam, you could be working with some of the best minds in the country at a state-of-the-art facility. And the pay? Don't even get me started!”

She's at it again. For the third time this month, to be precise.

“Mom,” I say, my voice tight, “I appreciate your concern, but I'm happy where I am. Public hospital, small town…it's not all bad.”

“Happy?” she shrieks. “Don't be ridiculous, Liam. This isn't a charity case! You're a talented doctor with a bright future. Slaving away at a public hospital doesn't exactly scream 'bright future,' does it?”

There it is. The veiled jab, the attempt to guilt me into conforming to her vision of success.

“Look,” I say, my frustration bubbling over, “I told you I'm okay, alright? I don't need some fancy private practice or a million-dollar salary to feel fulfilled.”

“Oh, come on, Liam,” she huffs. “Don't get snippy with me. I'm just trying to help.”

“I know you are,” I say, my voice softening. “But I can handle myself. And speaking of handling myself, when are you coming to visit?”

It's a question I've been dreading asking. A visit usually involves awkward silences, forced conversations with her new husband's brood—two perfectly groomed sons and a carbon copy of their mother daughter, all with trust funds bigger than my student loans—and thinly veiled attempts to set me up with their equally privileged friends.

“Honey,” she says, her voice losing its earlier edge, “I actually just met the most wonderful doctor last week. Dr. Roland, a friend of Richard's. He runs a top-notch practice in Beverly Hills and is looking for a bright young mind to join his team. I mentioned you, of course…”

Here we go again.

“Mom,” I interrupt gently, “I appreciate you trying to connect me with Dr. Roland, but I'm really not interested.”

A beat of silence follows, then a sigh. “Oh, Liam,” she says, her voice tinged with disappointment. “This is a good opportunity for you. Eight times the pay, state-of-the-art facilities, the chance to work with celebrities…” I can practically hear the dollar signs clinking in her voice.

“Mom,” I cut in again, my voice firm but not unkind. “Listen, I know you want what's best for me, but I came here for a reason. To work with Dad, to maybe even reconnect a little. Besides, I wouldn't be comfortable treating celebrities with their…unrealistic expectations.”

“Unrealistic expectations?” she scoffs. “Liam, honey, that's part of the business! You wouldn't believe the things some of these stars ask for.”

I can imagine. A part of me is curious, but a larger part is relieved I won't have to deal with it.

“Look,” I say gently, “how about we table this conversation for now? I'm at work, and I have patients waiting.”

“Fine,” she huffs. “But you promise you'll think about it? Dr. Roland is a lovely man, and this could be a real game-changer for you.”

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