She grew pale and said her incision felt worse.

I could see panic in her face, the fear that any complaint would be dismissed as drama.

“We’ll call the care team,” I said.

“That’s what they’re here for.”
A clinician advised us to come in for evaluation.

We went promptly, leaving the apartment orderly but abandoning dinner half-prepared.

This time no one told Maya she was being difficult.

She was examined, her treatment was reassessed, and she returned home with clear written instructions and a follow-up appointment.

On the ride back she stared at the traffic lights.