Chapter 6 — The Hand That Carves Sin

The gazes directed at me—a toxic blend of sympathy, curiosity, suspicion, and disdain—felt like countless tiny needles piercing my skin. I retreated into my office, a space that had once been my sanctuary, the harbor where I felt most at peace. Now, even this room felt alien and chillingly cold. My desk was cluttered with medical records I had yet to process. Instinctively, I reached out with my right hand to gather them, forgetting that my left arm was still suspended in a sling. The tension of the strap caught me off guard, causing me to stumble and nearly collapse. I braced myself against the desk, steadying my shaking frame, and caught my reflection in the small vanity mirror resting there. The woman staring back looked ghostly pale, her hair disheveled, her eyes hollow and vacant. Was this truly me? Was this the same To Hoan who had once stood with such calm, decisive, and unflappable confidence in the operating theater? A sharp knock rattled the door. I did not turn around, merely whispering, "Come in." The person who entered was the hospital’s vice director. He had once been my mentor, a man who had always held me in high regard.

"Little To," he called out, his voice heavy with a complicated weight.

"Director," I replied, turning to nod at him.

"The events in court today... I have heard the news," the vice director sighed, his expression weary. "It is already circulating all over the internet."

He handed his phone to me. A glaring headline dominated the screen: "Heroic husband sheds tears in court: Wife cheated with a superior, subjecting her husband to years of cold violence." In the article, Tran Da was painted as a noble hero who had sacrificed everything for his country, only to be betrayed by his own household. I, meanwhile, was depicted as a lecherous woman, frigid toward my husband and utterly irresponsible as a wife. The piece featured photos of Tran Da looking "painfully despairing" in court, contrasted with a side profile of me—devoid of expression, appearing "cold and heartless." The comment section had already erupted into a frenzy.

"I knew it. It takes two to tango. So, the woman was the one who cheated first."

"What a vile woman! Her husband is out there defending the country while she is at home sneaking around with another man?"

"I feel so sorry for Hero Tran! A woman like this deserves to be drowned in a pig cage!"

"Is she even a doctor? Where is her medical ethics? We demand that the hospital conduct a serious investigation!"

I scrolled through the comments, my hands and feet turning to ice. This was exactly what Tran Da wanted. He had succeeded. He used lies and public opinion to nail me to the cross of public shame.

"Little To," the vice director took back the phone, his face grave. "I know you are not that kind of person. But... the influence is terrible now, and the hospital is under immense pressure. Look at your injured arm as well; perhaps it is best if you… take an unpaid leave of absence and go home to recover for a while?"

I looked at him, instantly grasping his meaning. This was a request for me to "avoid the line of fire." It was a cowardly, veiled form of abandonment. I had poured my entire youth and devotion into this hospital, into my department. The surgeries I had performed, the awards I had earned, the research papers I had published—they had all brought countless honors to this institution. Yet now, the moment I sank into the mud, the hospital’s first instinct was to scrub its hands clean of me. I understood, and I could even sympathize; the hospital needed to protect its reputation. But understanding and sympathy did not soften the blow. My heart felt as if it were being crushed by an invisible hand, the pain so sharp I could barely draw breath.

"Very well."

I heard the words leave my lips. Just those two. Then, I began to pack. My white coat, my stethoscope, my reference books, and the photograph of myself with my mentor and colleagues on the day I received my award. I placed each item into a cardboard box. As I carried the box out of my office, I saw Old Truong. He stood at the far end of the corridor, watching me, the fire of indignation in his eyes threatening to burn through the glass.

"Did they force you out?" he asked.

I did not speak, simply nodding.

"Outrageous!" Old Truong slammed his fist against the wall. "I am going to find them and demand an explanation!"

"Don't, Old Truong," I said, pulling him back. "It is useless. This is already the best possible outcome."

At least it was unpaid leave rather than an outright termination. At least I could salvage some shred of dignity.

"To Hoan..."

"I am fine," I managed a smile at him, though that expression was likely more painful to witness than weeping. "I am going home now. An An is waiting."

Clutching the cardboard box, I walked away from the place where I had strived for over a decade. Every step felt like treading on broken glass. I had once believed that as long as my skills were superior, as long as I could save lives, I would have worth and deserve respect. Only now did I realize how easily rumors and filth could erase a person's years of effort and achievement. It turns out that destroying a human being is terrifyingly simple.

After leaving the hospital, I moved house. I brought An An to live in an old apartment complex. The rent was cheap, and the neighbors were not the type to pry into each other’s business. I sold my car, effectively severing most ties to my former life. Our existence was quiet, though undeniably difficult. With no income, we survived on my meager savings. Every day, I prepared different meals for An An, drew pictures with her, and told her stories, trying my best to make her forget the unhappiness that had surrounded us. But some wounds are etched deep. An An became clingy, falling into a strange, heavy silence. At night, she would often wake up from nightmares, crying and screaming, "Don't hit Mommy!"