Page 160 of The Golden Hour

Mason shakes his head stubbornly. “But I taught him how to think about these patients, Honey.”

“And you were taught by Dr. Weaver, who was taught by someone, who was taught by someone,” Honey says. “The cycle existed before you, Mason. It probably will after you. You helped continue it, and you’ve taken responsibility for that.”

She moves closer and cradles his cheek. His eyes fall close, and her thumb brushes away his tears.

“But the responsibility for what Lowell did to that child belongs to Lowell.”

His eyes snap open to meet hers.

“It took you and Daisy almost dying for me to change, Honey,” Mason says, his voice rough.

“I know,” she whispers.

“That’s the most shameful thing about this—” he growls at himself, jabbing two fingers to his temple, “—the fucking thing I can’t stop thinking about is I don’t know if I would have actually changed without that.”

The admission squeezes Honey’s chest, and then beneath that ache is something else. Pride in him. For the man she married, the man she loves, who can wear the ugliest parts of himself without trying to hide them with excuses.

“The fact that you can admit that to me shows how much you have changed,” Honey says softly.

Mason blinks at that.

“You’re not rewriting what happened,” Honey shrugs. “You’re owning it, because it happened and it was terrifying and awful and the worst thing that has ever happened to me, and I never want to go through it ever again.”

Mason’s face collapses.

Honey gently shakes him with the hand cupping his cheek, forcing him to keep his eyes on her.

“I wonder about the things I wish I had known how to do differently,” Honey admits. “I wish I had known how to advocate for myself sooner. Not because what happened was my fault. It wasn’t⁠⁠—”

“No, it fucking wasn’t,” Mason says fiercely.

She nods.

“I didn’t know that I was allowed to demand better. That I was allowed to tell my husband that providing for me wasn’t the same as being present for me. For our daughter.”

Mason shakes his head. “You were sick, Honey. You were suffering. Alone.”

“I know. And the perinatal depression was telling me that everything was my fault. Dr. Mortimer kept telling me that I was hormonal and overly anxious,” she says. Mason’s jaw tightens at the mention of the doctor.

Ellen sent them an obituary from Florida about two months ago.

Coronary event on the golf course. Painful and long.

“And you just kept telling me that it was only for another year, just until you finish your residency.”

The look of shame on Mason’s face makes her chest clench.

“Everyone around me sounded so certain that I started believing I had to be the one who was wrong,” Honey says, and then smiles proudly. “But this last year taught me how to speak up for myself. It taught me that being kind doesn’t mean being silent. That being sweet doesn’t mean rolling over and letting people hurt me.”

Honey lifts her chin.

“So I will never allow myself to be ignored by a doctor again,” she grins teasingly. “Especially you.”

Mason’s lips twitch.

“Especially me,” he murmurs.

“You could have made so many different choices after what happened. You could have blamed the hospital. You could have blamed Dr. Mortimer. You could have blamed me for not speaking louder.”