“He’s not dead, sweetheart. And neither are you. Not to him.”
Then she walked away.
I stood there with an empty ice bucket in my hands, trying to understand what that could possibly mean.
Later that night, I asked my parents.
My father’s face hardened instantly.
“Dorothy is old. She gets confused.”
“He’s dead,” my father said, voice flat as iron. “End of discussion. Don’t bring it up again.”
My mother would not meet my eyes.
Victoria stayed buried in her phone.
I let it go.
At least, I told myself I did.
I had college ahead of me. I had a future to build. But Dorothy’s words lodged themselves somewhere deep inside me.
He’s not dead, and neither are you. Not to him.
I did not understand them then.
I had no idea it would take eight more years to uncover the meaning.
And when I did, everything I thought I knew about my family would collapse.
College was supposed to be my escape, and in some ways it was.
For the first time in my life, I had a room with a window. A roommate who asked how my day had been and waited for the answer. Professors who remembered my name.
I threw myself into pre-med with everything I had. Organic chemistry at seven in the morning. Biology labs that ran until midnight. Study groups on weekends.
I slept four hours a night and had never felt more alive.
At the end of freshman year, my GPA was 3.92.
My parents never asked.
Sophomore year, I applied for summer research positions and got into a competitive program at UW Medical Center studying cellular regeneration under one of the top researchers in the country.
I called home to tell them.
Victoria answered.
“Mom’s busy. Dad’s at work. What do you want?”
“I got into a research program. It’s really competitive.”
“Cool. Hey, can you send me two hundred dollars? I need new shoes for Ashley’s birthday party.”
“Victoria, I work part-time. I don’t have—”
“Forget it. You’re so stingy.”
She hung up.
I stared at my phone for a long time, then went back to studying.
The summer after sophomore year, my appendix ruptured.
I was alone in my apartment at two in the morning when the pain hit—sharp, deep, twisting. I could not stand. Could barely breathe. I crawled across the floor to my phone and dialed 911.
The ambulance took me to Seattle Grace Hospital.
.webp)
Emergency surgery. Burst appendix. Infection already spreading.
Another hour and it would have killed me.
I woke up alone in a hospital room. A nurse checked my vitals and asked if there was anyone she should call.
I gave her my parents’ number.
