I was 24 when I sat in a hospital office after losing my father unexpectedly. Everything around me felt unreal. The forms in front of me might as well have been written in another language. My hands would not stop trembling.
The woman behind the desk noticed. She did not rush me or show impatience. She gently explained each section and paused whenever she saw my eyes blur with tears. At one point, she handed me tissues without saying anything. When I finished, she gave me a soft nod, like she understood that finishing those papers was harder than it looked. That quiet patience stayed with me longer than any formal sympathy ever could.
