The woman sitting across from me holds a mug of steaming tea and decades of resentment. Years ago, a priest convinced her father that a woman could have no reason to pursue medicine, to become a doctor, and she could never forgive that priest or the church behind him for ripping away her dream. Traces of bitter disillusionment still eek out in her words. What answer do you even give to a story like that? I nod, mutter, “I’m so sorry,” and listen clumsily. I try to give my presence to the pain. The only response I can offer to…