Sheila Gujrathi

I was seven, trailing my mother as she pushed a shopping cart down the dry goods aisle. She was still in her work clothes from her clinic shift at the hospital. Circles shadowed her eyes; she hadn’t slept well, but her dark hair was well-coiffed, and her posture was arrow-straight as always. “Dr. Gujrathi?” A woman approached us, her voice breaking. Behind her stood a small boy, maybe my own age, clutching a box of Lucky Charms. “I just wanted to thank you again. For saving Johnny’s life.” My...