Page 13 of Obeying

I lean back in my chair. "I did."

"And you didn't think to mention it."

"I've been busy."

"Too busy to tell your parents you received one of the most prestigious recognitions in trauma surgery." It's not a question. It's a correction.

I take my glasses off and set them on the desk. There was a time when I would have called them the same night, sent the photos, forwarded the press release, sat through the congratulations that always came wrapped in comparison. That's wonderful, Logan. Your father received his first Hargrove at thirty-eight, so you're ahead of schedule. Like my career is a train and they're checking it against the timetable they wrote before I could walk.

I stopped telling them things about two years ago. Gradually, not all at once. A conference here, an invitation there. I'd let the news reach them through the network instead, through colleagues and former fellows who'd mention it at dinners in Munich or panels in Boston. It was easier that way. When I told them directly, it felt like I was handing them a report card. When they found out through someone else, at least I could pretend it wasn't about them.

"I'll send you the recording of the keynote," I say.

"I'd like that. Your mother would too." He pauses, and I know what comes next. "We're proud of you, Logan. You know that."

"I know." And I do know. They're always proud. I've never done anything to make them anything but.

"The Maxwell name carries weight in this field. You're carrying it well."

"Thanks, Dad." I bite the inside of my cheek. "How's Germany treating you?" It's the closest thing to personal I can manage.

"Wonderful. Your mother's taken up hiking, if you can believe it. She says it clears her head between research blocks." He sighs. "Three years now. Hard to believe."

Three years since they moved to Munich. They went for a six-month research fellowship at the university hospital, and they fell in love with the place. The pace, the funding, and the European medical community that treated them like visiting royalty. The six months became a year. The year became permanent. They sold the house, and that was that.

But distance doesn't do what you'd think it does. Their names are still on the plaques in the lobby of this hospital. Their published work is still cited in every department. Half the attendings here trained under one or both of them, and the patients who've been coming here for decades still ask me if I'm Theo and Margaret's son. The Maxwell legacy doesn't need my parents in the building to function. It runs on its own, and everyone is watching to see if the son lives up to it.

"We should visit soon," he says. "Your mother misses you."

"That'd be good."

"Take care of yourself, Logan."

"You too, Dad."

We hang up, and I sit there in my office with the quiet settling around me.

They're not bad parents. They're exceptional people who raised their son to be exceptional, and they love me in the way they know how, which is by expecting me to be extraordinary and telling me they're proud when I am. The problem is I've never figured out what happens if I'm not. If the awards stop, if the name stops carrying weight, if one day I just want to be a man who's good at his job without it being a legacy obligation.

I think about Kristen. About the gap in her file. Years of nothing where a career should have been. I don't know what happened, but whatever it was, she walked away from everything we spent four years building toward. She had the same fire, the same talent, the same drive. And she gave it up. I can't imagine doing that. I can't imagine choosing to walk away from this, because I've never been given the option.

It shouldn't make me feel this hollow. That I've never been reckless.

I put my glasses back on. Enough.

Eleanor Vance finds me in the attendings' lounge before morning rounds. A senior attending in general surgery, Eleanor's been here eight years, and is one of the hospital's best. She runs her service with the sort of discipline that makes residents respect her and forces administration to leave her alone, and she has this way of moving through the hospital like she's already three steps ahead of whatever crisis is coming next. Even in trauma cases, she is composed and elegant. The kind of surgeon who makes it look effortless because she did the work years ago to earn that calm. She's also one of the two people in this building who talk to me like a colleague instead of a department head, which is probably why she's one of the two people I actually like. No, three. I add Kristen to the list, even though her ease comes and goes.

Eleanor pours her coffee, sits across from me, and says without looking up, "Hope you're not being too harsh on the new residents."

"I'm not harsh. I'm thorough."

"I heard you made Brennan cry."

"Brennan needs to learn to handle pressure. If he can't answer a question in rounds, he can't make a call in a trauma bay."

"Fair point." She sips her coffee. Because she takes her time with the next sentence, I know it's going to be pointed. "And the older one? Portland? You seem particularly 'thorough' with her."

I blink. "She's capable. I'm treating her accordingly."