I just finished a double shift, again. The fluorescent lights of the hospital still hum behind my eyelids, a phantom ache in my bones that goes beyond mere fatigue. Seventy-six years old, and still I’m here, every single day, every day, examining tiny throats and listening to the flutter of infant hearts. It's a profound responsibility, this stewardship of innocence, and I perform it with the precision ingrained by years of military discipline. But tonight, the weight of it feels less like a calling and more like a heavy overcoat I can't quite shed. As I peeled off my scrubs, the fabric sticking to my damp skin, a memory, sharp and unbidden, pierced through the exhaustion. It was a Saturday, sometime in the late seventies. My husband, Arthur, was kneading dough on our kitchen counter, flour dusting his forearms like a fine snow. The scent of yeast and warm sugar filled the small apartment, a domestic perfume so different from the antiseptic tang of the hospital. We were young then, just out of the service, trying to find our footing in a world that felt… unstructured, after the regimented certainty of military life. He had this dream, Arthur did, of opening a small bakery. He was a natural, truly. His hands, so strong from his time as an engineer, moved with an unexpected grace as he shaped loaves and meticulously piped frosting onto delicate pastries. He'd talk for hours about artisanal breads, about the perfect croissant lamination, about the joy of creating something tangible and delicious for people. His passion was almost infectious, a warm glow in the stark reality of post-war civilian adjustment. I, too, had been in culinary school, briefly. It was a whimsy, a departure from the pragmatism I’d always embraced. I enjoyed the methodical precision of baking, the exact measurements, the predictable chemistry. There was a certain order to it that appealed to my sensibilities, a stark contrast to the chaotic emotional landscape of… well, of everything else. Arthur and I would spend evenings poring over cookbooks, sketching out potential bakery layouts on cocktail napkins, naming hypothetical pastries. It felt like a tangible future, a different kind of deployment. Then came the medical school acceptance letter. My aptitude scores were high, my professors had strongly encouraged it. It felt like a duty, almost, a more respectable and secure path for someone with my particular… constitution. Arthur, bless his gentle soul, never once pressured me. He just looked at me with those kind, steady eyes and said, "Whatever makes you happy, my love. Whatever fulfills you." He never used the word ‘fulfillment’ often, but when he did, it carried a weight of genuine meaning. So I chose medicine. And he, after a few years of trying to make his bakery dream a reality alone, after the civilian world proved less forgiving than he’d hoped without a partner truly committed to the venture, eventually took a job in logistics. He was still precise, still methodical, but the light, the effervescence, had dimmed. I saw it, of course. I saw the quiet resignation in his eyes when he talked about inventory management instead of sourdough starters. It was a slow, imperceptible shift, like tectonic plates moving millimeters at a time. He never complained, never once expressed resentment. That was Arthur. He was a man of quiet fortitude, of unwavering support. He was proud of my accomplishments, genuinely so. And I, in turn, was a successful pediatrician, lauded for my diagnostic acumen, my unflappable demeanor in crises. I contributed significantly to our community, to the well-being of countless children. It's a good life, objectively. A life of purpose, of contribution. But tonight, as I sip my lukewarm tea in the quiet of my kitchen, a single, insistent question repeats itself in my mind, a persistent tremor: what if? What if I had chosen the flour-dusted apron over the sterile white coat? What if we had faced the uncertainty of that small bakery together, every single day, every day? Would his light have stayed brighter? Would mine have found a different kind of warmth? The question isn't about regret, precisely. It's more like a careful diagnostic inquiry, an attempt to understand a bifurcation point, a path not taken. The silence of the house presses in, a heavy blanket. The bakery, the smell of warm bread, the laughter in a sunlit kitchen… that alternate reality feels so close, so palpable, a phantom limb of a life I never lived. And I am left with the hum of the refrigerator, and the lingering scent of antiseptic.