They told me she was just an unidentified vagrant brought into Bayfront Medical Center at 2:00 AM.
The next morning, I was summoned to an “unscheduled administrative review meeting.” The email was brief, the tone clipped. It was held in a small, windowless conference room, the kind reserved for disciplinary actions.
Marcus Higgins sat at the head of the table, impeccably dressed. Roger Daugherty was at his side, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Dr. Aris Winslow, the Chief of Surgery, sat opposite them, his expression neutral.
“Ethan,” Higgins began, his voice laced with feigned concern. “We’ve been… observing your behavior. The recent incidents. Your erratic decision-making in the trauma bay.”
My jaw tightened. He meant Hannah.
“I’m simply ensuring proper patient care,” I replied, keeping my voice steady.
Higgins nodded slowly. “Of course. But we have some concerns.”
He slid a file across the polished table towards me. The cover read: “Dr. Ethan Harrison – Psychiatric Evaluation.” My name, in bold, stark lettering.
“We’ve consulted with the department head of psychiatry,” Higgins continued, his eyes meeting mine. “Dr. Evans reports… some rather troubling findings.”
I opened the file. Inside were pages of fabricated notes, attributed to a Dr. Evans I’d never met. They detailed “acute sleep-deprivation psychosis,” “grief-induced hallucinations,” and “paranoid delusions regarding institutional conspiracy.” It even cited my recent “unauthorized actions” as evidence of a mental break.
“Ethan,” Winslow said, his voice flat, “these reports indicate a severe level of stress. Hallucinations are a serious concern.”
I stared at the words, a cold knot forming in my gut. He was trying to break me, to make me doubt my own sanity.
“This is falsified,” I said, pushing the file back. “I’ve never seen a Dr. Evans. These are lies.”
Higgins simply smiled, a patronizing curve of his lips. “Denial is a common symptom, Ethan. Especially when the delusions are so deeply ingrained.”
He then pushed another set of papers towards me. “And regarding the, ah, paternity of the unborn children you’re so focused on…”
My gaze snapped to the document. It was a lab report, official-looking. It stated that the twin fetuses’ genetic markers matched an anonymous donor from a “closed fertility clinic” in another state.
“As you can see,” Higgins continued, leaning forward, “there is no biological link to you. A simple misunderstanding, perhaps brought on by… stress.”
Daugherty shifted in his seat, avoiding my eyes. Winslow simply stared at the table, a flicker of unease crossing his face.
“Ethan,” Higgins said, his voice dropping to a soft, almost sympathetic tone, “for your own well-being, and for the safety of our patients, we strongly recommend a mandatory six-month administrative leave. Full pay, of course. Time to recover.”
It was an ultimatum. A polite removal. Six months would be enough time for Hannah to disappear again, for the twins to be gone, for all traces of his crimes to be scrubbed clean.
I met his gaze, my hands flat on the table, resisting the urge to stand, to shout, to tear the false reports to shreds. He wanted me to break. He wanted me out.
But the anger I felt was sharp, clear, and very real. It was not a delusion.
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