I, meanwhile, buried myself in school. Studying became my escape. Every good grade felt like proof that our sacrifices weren’t wasted. Teachers praised me. Counselors said I had a future. And somewhere along the way, I started believing that future was mine alone.
Emma never complained. She’d sit at the kitchen table late at night, rubbing her wrists, helping me quiz anatomy terms while half-asleep. When I got accepted to college, she cried like she’d won the lottery.
“You’re going to be someone,” she said. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
I didn’t understand what that cost her.
Years later, I stood on a graduation stage in a pressed gown, my name echoing through the auditorium. I’d made it. Medical school acceptance letters. Applause. Pride buzzing in my chest like electricity.
Emma came, sitting in the back row. She looked older than I remembered. Thinner. Tired. But she smiled the same way she always had—like seeing me succeed made everything else disappear.
At the celebration dinner, surrounded by classmates and their accomplished families, something ugly rose up in me. I don’t know why. Maybe insecurity. Maybe resentment I’d never dealt with.
Family games
I lifted my glass and laughed, too loudly.
“See?” I said. “I climbed the ladder. I worked hard. You took the easy road and became… well, nobody.”
The table went quiet.
