I’ve been a nurse for six years—long shifts, sore feet, and barely a moment to eat—but despite the challenges, I love my job. In the hospital, what matters is skill and dedication; no one cares about how you look, only how well you care for your patients.
But today forced me to face a part of my past I thought I’d left behind.
I walked into the ER, chart in hand, focused on my next patient. I barely glanced at the name as I began my routine. “Alright, let’s see what we have—” Then I looked up.
Robby Langston.
He sat on the exam table, gripping his injured wrist. The moment our eyes met, his widened in recognition. For a second, I wondered if he even remembered me—but then I saw the hesitation in his expression, the way his gaze lingered on my face, and I knew he did.
Middle school. High school. Years of relentless torment. Robby had given me cruel nicknames like “Big Becca” and “Toucan Sam,” making me hate parts of myself I couldn’t change. I spent so much of my youth wishing I could disappear, escape his ridicule. And now, here I was, standing in scrubs, holding his chart—his nurse.
“Becca?” he said uncertainly. “Wow… it’s been a long time.”
I kept my face neutral, my emotions locked away. “What happened to your wrist?” I asked, keeping my tone professional.
“Basketball injury,” he muttered. “Probably just a sprain.”
I nodded, checking his vitals and beginning my exam, but memories flooded my mind—hallway taunts, cafeteria laughter at my expense. I had always imagined a moment when I could face my past and find closure. I never thought it would happen like this.
As I wrapped his wrist, he let out an awkward chuckle. “Guess karma’s funny, huh? You taking care of me after all that.”
For the first time, I saw him not as the arrogant bully from my past but as a vulnerable person sitting in front of me. Then, unexpectedly, he said something that made my hands pause mid-wrap.
“Listen…” He shifted uncomfortably. “I want to say I’m sorry. For everything.”
I blinked, caught off guard. The very person who had made my school years miserable—now apologizing? I took a deep breath, forcing myself to remain composed. I reached for a wrist brace from the supply cart.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he continued. “I know I was awful, and I can’t change that. But I’ve thought about it a lot, especially when I heard you became a nurse.”
He gave a weak chuckle. “Figured if anyone was going to do something important, it’d be you.”
As I secured the brace, a flood of emotions crashed over me. Part of me wanted to lash out, remind him of the pain he caused, the nights I cried myself to sleep, the desperate ways I tried to change myself just to escape his cruelty. But another part of me, the part that had grown stronger through years of experience, knew I had a job to do—no matter who was on the other side of it.
After a pause, I simply said, “I appreciate the apology.”
A heavy silence followed. He seemed to be waiting for something—for me to forgive him, maybe. But I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
Before I could say more, he winced, cradling his wrist. “Is it supposed to hurt this much?” he asked, his voice tinged with concern.
I frowned, checking his pulse and running a quick neurological test. His X-ray results weren’t back yet, but something in his expression told me this was more than just a sprain.
“We’ll know more once we get your scans,” I said, gently pressing on his forearm. “Does it hurt here?”
He nodded. “Yeah, a lot.”
“Alright. We’ll keep it wrapped for now. Try to relax.”
I left the room, heading to the nurses’ station with my thoughts tangled. I remembered a particularly awful day in tenth grade—spilling my lunch in the cafeteria, Robby and his friends laughing, my face burning with humiliation. Back then, I had wanted nothing more than to disappear. But now? Now, I stood tall, doing my job, no longer hiding from my past.
When his results came back, confirming a fracture, I returned to his room and calmly explained the situation. As I prepped his arm for a cast, he looked up at me and spoke softly.
“I know I can’t change the past, but I hope that someday you’ll believe that I really am sorry.”
I met his gaze, seeing the genuine regret there. But instead of responding with anger or rehashing old wounds, I finished securing his cast and said simply, “Take care of that wrist.”
Then I turned and walked away, feeling something I hadn’t expected—not closure, not forgiveness, but power. I hadn’t let my past define me. I had chosen to move forward on my own terms. And in the end, that was the greatest victory of all.