Now Sarah sits across from Jennifer.
Age 59. Blood pressure 146/93. Chart in Sarah's hands.
Jennifer's wedding ring clicks against the armrest. Click. Click. Click. Her hands won't stop moving. Fingers tapping, fidgeting, gripping the chair arm until her knuckles go white.
"My mother—"
Jennifer's voice cracks. Her throat works. She swallows hard.
"My mother died at 64. Heart attack."
Jennifer's hands shake. She presses them together, hard, trying to still them.
"I was holding her hand when—"
She can't finish.
Sarah's throat closes. Her chest tightens. She feels the weight of her mother's cold hand in hers. The emergency room lights. The flat line on the monitor.
Six years ago. Still there when she closes her eyes.
Jennifer's chart matches her mother's. Same age when the numbers started climbing. Same family history—father, uncle, grandfather. Same medications listed. Same blood pressure readings that crept higher despite everything.
Same terror.
Sarah sees it in Jennifer's eyes. Pupils wide. Wet at the corners. Darting to the prescription pad on Sarah's desk, then away, then back again.
"I can't go on those pills."
Jennifer whispers it. Her voice barely audible.
"I watched what they did to her. She wasn't... she wasn't my mother anymore. Just this tired, swollen person who couldn't—"
Jennifer's hands fly to her face. Shoulders shaking. Breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
Sarah stands. Rounds the desk. Her own hands shaking now.
She reaches for Jennifer's hand. Feels it trembling in her palm.
"Your mother's fate isn't yours."
Sarah's voice steady. Doctor voice. Confident voice.
Even though her heart is pounding.
"Because she didn't have what you have."
Jennifer looks up. Mascara streaking down her cheeks. Tears dripping off her chin. Eyes searching Sarah's face.
Desperate.
Hoping.
Begging for something different than what came before.