As the day edges into evening, I resolve to try again.
Perhaps this time, with the right words, I can shift the conversation.
Maybe I’ll bring up the research, the articles that back up my experience.
Dr. Harris might see the patterns in my blood sugar logs, the spikes that follow my indulgence in peaches.
There’s a slim hope that she’ll listen, that she’ll offer more than the usual platitudes.
But the fear of being brushed off again looms large.
The porch offers no answers, only the quiet solidarity of the evening shadows.
Tomorrow, I’ll face Dr. Harris again, and the thought makes my heart race.
But for now, I sit here, the echoes of the day wrapping around me, cradling the last slivers of a peach in my hand.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered.
