His eyes moved to my badge. “Still working too much?”

The words were old enough to be boring. They still found the bruise. During our marriage my work had been the third person at our table — too many emergency calls, too many nights in an on-call room, too many birthdays interrupted by a child turning blue in an ambulance bay.

Connor once told me my patients got the best version of me and he got whatever was left. I believed him for a long time.

That’s how people like Connor win. They don’t start by telling you that you’re nothing. They start by convincing you that your best qualities are injuries you’ve inflicted on them.

“I love my work,” I said.

“Oh, I know.” His smile widened. Then he moved closer to the stroller — a small movement that changed the shape of the whole scene. He wanted everyone to see.