Widow Fights for Justice

The Thanksgiving dinner had been perfect—until it wasn't.

I watched Hugo's father, Richard, step into the backyard with a box of fireworks, his face illuminated by the golden glow of our dining room windows. The Washington family tradition: the patriarch lighting the Thanksgiving fireworks while everyone gathered on the porch to watch.

"Hugo, your father's going to light those fireworks," I said, nudging my husband who was distracted by his phone. "Shouldn't you be out there with him?"

Hugo barely glanced up. "Dad's done this every year since I was a kid. He doesn't need my help."

I bit my lip, watching through the window as Richard fumbled with the lighter. Something seemed off—the way he bent awkwardly, his movements unsteady.

Then came the scream.

It wasn't the festive pop of fireworks, but a guttural cry of pain that tore through the evening air. The box in Richard's hands erupted in a ball of flame, and he staggered backward, his arms flailing.

"Richard!" Hugo's mother shrieked, already running toward him.

I was on my feet in an instant, racing past Hugo who finally seemed to realize something was wrong. The smell hit me first—burning flesh—and then I saw him. Richard was on the ground, his shirt ablaze, his face contorted in agony.

"Call 911!" I shouted, grabbing a garden hose from the side of the house.

Hugo finally moved, knocking over his chair as he rushed outside. "Dad! What happened?"

The hose water spluttered weakly—enough to extinguish some flames but not nearly enough. Richard's skin was already blistering before my eyes.

"Mariah," Hugo's mother clutched my arm, her nails digging into my skin. "Do something. You're a doctor."

I was a doctor—once. Before I gave it all up for Hugo. But muscle memory took over as I assessed Richard's injuries. Third-degree burns across at least forty percent of his body. Smoke inhalation. Possible internal damage.

The ambulance arrived in a blur of flashing lights and urgent voices.

---

Hours later, I paced the hospital waiting room while Hugo strode through the emergency department doors. He'd been called away for an emergency surgery earlier, but now he was here, his white coat billowing behind him like a cape.

"Dad's in bad shape," I said, meeting him halfway. "They're taking him to surgery now."

Hugo's face was unreadable. "I know. I'll handle it."

"You'll handle it?" I repeated, incredulous. "Hugo, he needs a specialist. Those burns—"

"I am a specialist, Mariah." His tone cut me off. "This is my hospital. My father."

I followed him to the surgical floor, watching as he conferred with the team. Catalina Rogers hovered nearby, her delicate features arranged in an expression of professional concern that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Catalina will perform the surgery," Hugo announced, not looking at me.

"What?" I stepped forward. "She's not qualified for this kind of procedure."

Hugo's eyes flashed. "She's my protégé. I trained her."

"Since when does watching you operate constitute training?" I kept my voice low, aware of the staff watching us.

Catalina's hands trembled slightly as she adjusted her surgical cap. I noticed her fingers shaking as she checked Richard's chart.

"Dr. Washington," she said, her voice honey-sweet, "are you sure I should—"

"You'll be fine," Hugo interrupted. "I'll supervise."

I caught his arm as he walked away. "Hugo, please. Your father's life is at stake."

He pulled away from me. "Don't question my decisions, Mariah. Not here."

---

Three hours later, I sat alone in the waiting room, watching the clock tick past midnight. Richard was still in surgery. Hugo had disappeared an hour ago, saying he needed to check on another patient.

My phone buzzed with a text from Sarah, my former colleague.

"Everything okay? You missed our check-in."

I typed back: "Richard Washington was burned. Hugo let Catalina perform the surgery."

Sarah's response was immediate: "WHAT?? That woman couldn't suture a straight line in med school."

Before I could reply, another message came through—this one from Hugo.

"Dinner with Catalina. Don't wait up."

I stared at the screen in disbelief. Richard was fighting for his life in an operating room, and Hugo was taking Catalina to dinner?

I called him immediately, but it went straight to voicemail.

"Where are you?" I whispered into the phone. "Your father might not survive this."

Through the hospital windows, I caught a glimpse of Hugo across the street, entering Bellini's, the expensive Italian restaurant where he took Catalina for special occasions. Even from here, I could see her laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his arm.

My stomach twisted as I watched them disappear inside, while upstairs, machines kept Richard Washington alive—or so I hoped.