Page 7 of Quinton's Quest

Apparently not Quinton.

Hopefully, he won’t be on the surgical rotation.

Yeah, right, when have you ever been that lucky?

From memory, I found my way to the cafeteria.

I texted my ex-husband over lunch, and he sent me more pictures of our children. I smiled because I could finally admit I’d made the right decision—trusting him with our beautiful, smart, loving children.

Satisfied with my life—for the moment—I ate and then headed back to work so I could figure out my new computer.

Too bad figuring out my new life wasn’t as easy.

Chapter Three

Quinton

“I’m home.” I stepped through the front door of our lovely house with a sigh of relief. I toed off my shoes and dropped my knapsack at the front door. After hanging my coat in the front hall closet, I grabbed the knapsack again and started to head upstairs.

“I made beef stew.” Mama poked her head out from the kitchen.

“You’re a goddess. Let me throw my clothes in the washing machine, and then I’ll be back down.” I’d showered after work, and put on last night’s clothes to come home in. Too many memories of Leo clung to them, so everything needed to be washed. Pronto.

“Go. Then come and tell me about work.” She disappeared back into the kitchen, sending a waft of fragrant air my way.

Mama worked as a nurse at the hospital as well—she was the reason I’d gone into nursing in the first place. I’d witnessed too many doctors and knew that path wasn’t for me. I’d considered physio or massage therapy—hell, even chiropractic—but I wanted to help people when they were at their worst. That meant working at a hospital.

That said, a hospice program had recently tried to lure me away.

I hadn’t taken the bait. Most of the time, I enjoyed working with patients who, if all went well, could continue on with their lives. Perhaps altered, but still moving forward.

After changing into my Valentine’s Day pajamas, I dumped all the clothes into the washing machine, turned it on, and headed downstairs. Upon entering the kitchen, I inhaled deeply. “I love you.”

Mama grinned. “I considered what to make for tonight. I decided on good Canadian comfort food.”

I couldn’t remember if beef stew was actually Canadian, but it didn’t matter. Comfort food was always the best.

Well, so was the Chinese food she loved to make.

And Korean, Greek, Mexican, Indian, Vietnamese, and every other place in the world. Mama had brought her love of food from China when she emigrated thirty years ago.

My father secured a job in Vancouver working for a financial firm navigating the Hong Kong transition and the implications for the Canadian financial markets.

Mama brought her nursing skills and found a job at the Abbotsford hospital. She’d spent much of her study time learning English and then blended her translation skills to work as a nurse.

I was born a few years later, and she insisted I learn both Mandarin and English. As one of three Chinese Canadian kids in my class, I struggled to straddle both worlds. When the time came to pick a career, though, I didn’t even consider business. Nope, nursing all the way.

My dad lived to see me graduate from nursing school five years ago—then died of a massive heart attack in his sleep.

Amidst our grief, Mama and I also felt some guilt. We’d tried to get my dad to visit the doctor for regular checkups.

Always too busy.

Now, too late.

Needless to say, I hounded Mama to do everything she could to remain healthy. I wasn’t losing another parent.

I poured two cups of tea and set them on the table as Mama ladled the stew into bowls. “Smells so damn good.”