The White Coat

Phuong was a good man. There were witnesses. Polite to strangers. Helpful to colleagues. Gentle in company. And the white coat. White has always had an excellent reputation. His partner knew the man after visiting hours. The jealousy. The corrections. The quiet humiliations. His privacy was privacy. Hers was evidence. His jealousy was love. Her questions were instability. It was an efficient arrangement. He wrote the dictionary. She lived inside it. When she remembered, he corrected. When she produced evidence, he corrected the evidence. Eventually she began documenting her own life. Phuong remained innocent. Innocence was not his conclusion. It was his premise. His mother had ruled the home. He disliked domination when it was above him. Below him, he found it reasonable. He became a doctor. Medicine taught him to recognise wounds. Not his own. His partner was beautiful, educated, independent. He admired her confidence until it contradicted him. So he made her smaller. He did not become larger. Then there was Yasmina. His daughter. Biology made the introduction. The rest required character. A child does not care whether her father is respected. She cares whether she is safe. Phuong could have ended what began with his mother. Instead, he passed the wound down. This is how certain families inherit things. He remained kind to outsiders. Of course he did. They got to leave. And still the white coat remained spotless. It was never the coat that had to live with him.