Simone's eyes filled.
She did not wipe the tears.
"You told me I wasn't alone."
Richard nodded.
"You weren't."
She looked at him.
"Do you know who I am?"
Richard hesitated.
"Nurse Lily told me your name."
"Do you know what I do?"
"Something very important, apparently."
A tiny movement touched Simone's mouth.
Almost a smile.
"I'm Simone Sinclair."
Richard nodded.
"I gathered that part."
"I run Sinclair Medical Group."
"Okay."
"We oversee this hospital's private foundation and three other hospital systems."
Richard waited.
"I've apparently signed documents affecting your department for years."
Richard looked around the room.
"Huh."
Simone studied him.
"That's all?"
"What am I supposed to say?"
Most people became different when they knew who Simone was.
Voices changed.
Posture changed.
Requests appeared.
Richard looked exactly the same.
Finally he said, "I only know you're somebody who needed someone sitting here."
He shrugged.
"The rest isn't really my business."
Simone cried.
Not elegantly.
Not discreetly.
She turned her face toward the window and tears slid down both cheeks.
Richard did not reach for her immediately.
He understood that some grief needed space.
Eventually Simone looked toward Olivia's drawing.
"Who made that?"
"My daughter."
"The stars?"
"Her artistic period."
"How old?"
"Eight."
Simone stared at the drawing.
"I had a daughter who used to draw me things."
Richard remained quiet.
"Her name is Sophia."
Simone swallowed.
"When she was little, she drew houses."
A faint smile.
"Always yellow suns in the corner. Smiling suns."
Richard nodded.
"Kids think the sun has a face."
"Maybe it should."
Simone looked down.
"She stopped drawing for me when she was ten."
Richard waited.
"I was in Chicago."
Simone's voice became softer.
"A conference."
She frowned.
"I don't even remember what the conference was about."
She looked toward the ceiling.
"I remember coming home and noticing her desk didn't have drawings anymore."
"You asked her why?"
Simone closed her eyes.
"No."
That single word carried twenty years of regret.
"I kept thinking there would be time."
She stared at the blanket.
"Once the company stabilized."
A humorless smile.
"Then after the acquisition."
"Then after the next expansion."
She shook her head.
"There was always something."
Richard said, "There usually is."
Simone looked at him.
"You sound like you know."
"I have kids."
He smiled faintly.
"There is always laundry."
That made her laugh.
A tiny, damaged laugh.
But real.