Gina Heslop
I have been a nurse for six years now. The job is tough—long shifts, tired feet, barely any time to eat—but I love it.
In the hospital, my work matters. No one cares what I look like, only that I do my job well. But today, something happened that took me back to a time I wished I could forget.
I walked into the ER with a patient chart in my hands, ready to check on someone. I glanced at the name quickly but didn’t think much of it. “Alright, let’s see what we got—” I said as I looked up. My breath caught in my throat.
Sitting on the hospital bed, holding his wrist and wincing in pain, was Robby Langston. The moment he saw me, his eyes widened in shock. For a second, I thought maybe he didn’t recognize me. But then he glanced quickly at my face—at my nose—and I knew that he did.
Robby had been my biggest bully in middle school and high school. He had given me cruel nicknames like “Big Becca” and “Toucan Sam,” making fun of my nose. He and his friends would laugh at me, making me feel ugly and worthless. For years, I wished I could disappear. But now, here I was, standing in my scrubs, and he was the one needing my help.
“Becca?” His voice was uncertain, maybe even nervous. “Wow, uh… it’s been a while.”
I kept my expression neutral. “What happened to your wrist?”
“Basketball injury,” he muttered. “Just a sprain, I think.”
I nodded and did my job, checking his vitals and examining his wrist. But inside, old feelings stirred. I had imagined a moment like this many times—facing my past, maybe even getting some justice.
Then, as I wrapped his wrist, he let out a small, awkward laugh. “Guess karma’s funny, huh? You taking care of me after all that.”
I met his eyes. He wasn’t the cocky guy from high school anymore. He just looked… human.
And then he said something I never expected.
“Listen…” He swallowed, shifting on the bed. “I want to say I’m sorry. For everything I did back then.”
I blinked, surprised. An apology? From the guy who made my life miserable? Who gave me names I still remembered in my worst moments?
“I know I was a jerk,” he continued. “I can’t fix it. But I’ve thought about it a lot. Especially when I heard you became a nurse.” He gave a weak chuckle. “If anyone deserved to do something meaningful, it was you.”
I focused on my job, adjusting his brace. A part of me wanted to tell him exactly how much he hurt me—how I cried in the bathroom after his jokes, how I tried everything to change my nose, how I begged my mom for surgery. But another part of me, the older, wiser part, reminded me that I was here to help.
“Well,” I said finally, “I appreciate that.”
There was a silence between us. He watched me, maybe expecting me to yell at him, but I stayed professional.
Before I could say anything else, Robby winced. “Is this supposed to hurt this much?”
I frowned. “Let me take another look.”
After checking his arm again, I realized his injury might be worse than a sprain. I ordered an X-ray and stepped into the hallway, trying to clear my head. Seeing him again had stirred up memories I thought I had buried.
Later, the doctor confirmed that Robby had a small fracture. He needed a cast. I returned to his room with the materials and started wrapping his arm.
As I worked, Robby spoke again. “I’ve been helping coach a kids’ basketball league,” he said, hesitating. “We have a fundraiser coming up, and I was supposed to help, but now, with this cast…”
I glanced at him, unsure where this was going.
“I remember you were always organizing school events,” he said. “You were good at it. I—I could use some help.”
I stared at him. Was this a joke? Was Robby really asking me for help after everything?
“Why would I—” I started, then stopped. He looked serious. Maybe he was trying to change.
“Forget I said anything,” he muttered. “I just… I wanted to show you I’m not that guy anymore.”
I looked at his cast, thinking. The old me would have been happy to see him struggle. But I wasn’t that person anymore.
“Let me think about it,” I finally said.
That night, I saw a post about the fundraiser on a community page. The league needed volunteers. On impulse, I sent a message offering to help—without mentioning Robby.
A week later, I showed up at the gym. Kids ran around, excited for the event. I was organizing raffle tickets when I felt someone behind me.
“Hey,” Robby said softly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I shrugged. “I saw the post. Figured it was a good cause.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I really appreciate it.”
We worked side by side, planning the event. I watched as Robby encouraged the kids, cheering them on. He seemed… different.
At the end of the day, as we packed up, I turned to him. “What you did to me in high school hurt. A lot.”
He lowered his head. “I know. I’m sorry. I was insecure and took it out on others. It doesn’t excuse anything.”
I sighed. “I appreciate your apology. It doesn’t fix everything, but it means something.”
He nodded. “I don’t expect you to forgive me right away. But I’m trying to be better.”
I handed him a list of ideas for the fundraiser. “You might need volunteers for the next event.”
He smiled. “Thanks. That means a lot.”
Maybe I wasn’t ready to fully forgive him yet. But for the first time, I saw a chance to let go of the past—and that felt like a start.
