My name is Elsa. I’m 26 years old, and I’m a general practitioner. I’ve been in a relationship with Simon for about six years now, and honestly, our relationship is complicated. We met in medical school, and we’ve had so many arguments that our friends often wonder when we’ll finally break up. But still, I hold on to hope that things will get better.

I know, I know—you might think I’m desperate, or that I don’t have the confidence to move on and start fresh with someone else. But no. Despite his moments of madness, Simon is a good man who knows how to listen to me and make me feel loved.

Our schedules are tight. Since we don’t work in the same hospital, or even in the same city, we always try to balance things out so that distance doesn’t ruin us.

So why am I telling you this story today? Because something touching happened to me. Don’t get your tissues ready yet—I’m not dead.

One Thursday morning, on my way to work as usual, I took a taxi (note: I’m not rich yet). The driver was a young man, maybe in his early thirties. There were two of us sitting in the back, and along the way, he picked up two more passengers. The atmosphere inside the taxi was cheerful, filled with light conversation. I was so relaxed that I didn’t even notice when we reached my stop. I handed him the fare and stepped out.

When I arrived at the hospital, the reception area wasn’t as crowded as it usually was on Monday mornings. I went straight to my office, put on my white coat, and that familiar feeling hit me—the same one I had on my first day. Each time I put on that coat, I feel the weight of responsibility: I must be up to the task for every patient, no matter their background or status.

Standing tall at 1.70m, I called for one of the nurses.

“Mrs. Bella, how are you? Please bring me the consultation records and the list of urgent cases.”

And that’s how my day began. I went through consultations and treatments until late in the afternoon. Since I wasn’t on call that day, I changed out of my uniform and headed home.

Dressed in a classic but chic black dress, I waited by the roadside near the hospital for a taxi.

The first taxi stopped.

“250, Public School…” the driver said.

I agreed and got in.

Halfway home, my handbag vibrated. Oh no—I had completely forgotten to turn off silent mode. When I checked, I saw three missed calls from Simon. Just as I was about to call him back, a message came through:

“Good grief! Why aren’t you answering my calls? Just so you know, I’m on my way to Douala. In 1 hour 30 minutes I’ll be there. I hope you haven’t forgotten our weekend plans. Can’t wait to see you.”

I smiled after reading it. How could I possibly forget our weekend plans?

We were supposed to attend the wedding of his childhood friend Gaëtan. I had to look my best. Luckily, I always made time for little home spa treatments.

When I got to my stop near Public School, I switched taxis to get home to Makepe.

About twenty minutes later, I arrived, quickly changed clothes, tidied up, and prepared a nice meal for Simon.

Two hours later, the doorbell rang. Excited, I rushed to the door and jumped into his arms. But instead of returning my embrace, he pushed me back.

“Wait, let me wash up. I’m dirty.”

It hit me like a bucket of cold water. Still, I didn’t want to spoil the weekend over something trivial. So I smiled and said:

“Alright, darling. Don’t just stand there—come in. I’ll get your bath ready.”

He walked in with his backpack and went straight to my bedroom. While he undressed, I heated water for his bath. Thirty minutes later, he joined me in the living room where I had already set the table.

We ate in silence. He seemed distant, but I assumed it was fatigue. One thing, however, caught my attention: his phone rang twice in short intervals, and each time, he ignored it.

Curious, I asked him why he wouldn’t answer and who it was.

“Nothing important,” he replied. “Just work. We’re supposed to install an oxygen unit in pediatrics soon. My colleague probably called about that.”

“Okay,” I said. “I hope you enjoyed the meal.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he got up and went to the bathroom with his phone. I pretended not to notice and busied myself with the dishes before heading to bed.

By the time I finished, he was already asleep. Some reunion that was! After two months apart, this was the welcome I got.

I climbed into bed beside him, but just as I reached to turn off the lamp, his phone started ringing again. I let it ring. Seconds later, it rang again. On the third attempt, I decided to answer.

“Hello, baby,” a woman’s voice purred.

I froze. It was like an electric shock. Summoning my courage, I answered:

“I’m sorry, but your baby is asleep. Call back tomorrow morning. Good night.”

I hung up, furious. My mind raced with a thousand thoughts. I shot him a death stare. The urge to strangle him crossed my mind, but I calmed myself.

“So, Mr. Perfect is cheating on me, eh? Alright. I’ll give him a lesson he’ll never forget.”

Tears streamed down my face. I grabbed a sheet and pillow, went to the couch, and cried myself to sleep with a heavy heart.