You’re not a real doctor, sweetie. You’re just the girl who married my son

I set the glass down and stood up. “Margaret,” I said, and my voice carried because I’d learned how to speak in trauma bays where machines screamed louder than people. “Since you’ve brought up my career, I think your guests deserve the full story.” David finally looked up. I didn’t look back. “Three weeks ago, a woman was brought into my ER. Cardiac event, late seventies, no ID, the paramedics said her daughter-in-law dropped her at the curb and drove off. I ran the code for forty-one minutes. I broke two of her ribs doing compressions. I brought her back.” The room was silent. Margaret’s smile had started to slip. “That woman is sitting at table four. Hi, Eleanor.” Eleanor, Margaret’s oldest friend, lifted a trembling hand in a small wave. “Eleanor doesn’t know who I am, because I wear a mask and she was unconscious. But I know who she is, because she’s in every photo on your mantel.” I turned to the room. “I’m not a real doctor? I’m the doctor your best friend is alive because of. And David,” I finally looked at my husband, “the prenup your mother made me sign eleven years ago said I get nothing if we divorce within ten years. We hit eleven last March.” I slid my napkin onto the plate. “I filed Monday. The papers are with your assistant.” Margaret stood up so fast her chair scraped. “You ungrateful little—” “Save it.” I picked up my purse. “Eleanor, your follow-up is Thursday at nine. Don’t be late. The rest of you, enjoy the cake. I hear Margaret picked it out herself. Vanilla. Like her opinions of me.” I walked out past forty stunned faces and one mother-in-law who finally, finally, had nothing to say. My phone buzzed before I reached the valet. It was David. I turned it off. The Boston air was cold and the sky was very, very clear.