The Book I'll Never Write (And How My Husband Ruined It)

My husband and I are sitting next to each other right now, both of us on our laptops. "Husband," I just said. "Listen to this." I shared with him an idea I had written yesterday for a book I'll never write. But I liked the idea nonetheless, and I wanted him to say, "Yes, Wife. That is a good idea. You are so smart." He did not say this. He said, "Med malpractice is dead." Then he took my laptop from me and added the final paragraph.

Seven months ago, James watched a girl cry in her car. As he planted lilies on the corner of Madison and Rochester for his summer landscaping job, she pulled up to the light, and for her tears he handed her a lily through the open window.

Today James sits in a courtroom because his dad stands trial for malpractice. Seven months ago, his dad nicked a patient’s artery during surgery. And the patient died. That patient’s family sits opposite him now, and once again he is looking into the eyes of the man’s daughter—who’s eyes are dry, as is the lily that she wears pinned to her shirt.

The only person that was happy to be in the courtroom that day was the defense attorney. He was billing about $350 an hour. He had already put over 200 hours into the case and was about to add another 40 after this week.

I mean, if the first two paragraphs didn't hook you, that last one will. But one thing is for sure...he is not touching my real books.