Here’s a small example. Eighth grade, I made it to the state science fair—the only kid from our school. Same weekend, Monica had a community theater performance. One guess where my parents went.
When I came home with a second-place ribbon, Dad glanced at it and said, “That’s nice, Reie.” He didn’t ask what my project was about.
He never did.
I told myself it didn’t hurt. I told myself I didn’t need the attention. I poured everything into my grades, my AP classes, my applications, because if I couldn’t be the daughter they noticed, I’d be the daughter they couldn’t ignore.
And for one brief, shining moment, I was.
The day I got accepted into Oregon Health & Science University’s medical program—three thousand miles from Hartford—something shifted.
For the first time in my life, my father looked at me, really looked at me, and said five words I’d waited eighteen years to hear. But I’ll get to that.
First, you need to understand what Monica did when she realized the spotlight was moving.
The acceptance letter came on a Tuesday in April. I remember because Monica was visiting for the weekend. She was twenty-two, working as a marketing coordinator at a mid-level firm in Stamford. Fine job, fine life.
Fine was Monica’s ceiling, though she’d never admit it.
Dad read the letter at the kitchen table. His eyebrows went up.
“Oregon Health and Science,” he said slowly, like he was tasting the words. “That’s a real medical school.”
Then he looked at me.
“Maybe you’ll make something of yourself after all, Reneie.”
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