My father thought I had come home as the quiet daughter he could still erase. No badge. No white coat. No title. Perfect. So when he told a stranger, “She quit medicine years ago,” I stayed silent. Until the dean walked over, looked him in the face, and said, “Dr. Rowan is one of the finest surgeons we’ve produced.” That was the first crack. The forged signature was the second.

“I earned this,” I told him.

He leaned against the counter. “You earned yourself into thinking you’re better than where you came from.”

“That’s not what this means.”

“Women in this family make sensible choices.”

“I’m going,” I said.

His eyes hardened.

“Then don’t expect us to applaud while you destroy yourself.”

I went anyway.

For a while, Ethan was the bridge between us.

He was fifteen when I left, all long limbs, messy hair, and endless appetite. Later, he visited me in Chicago and slept on my couch. I taught him how to read an EKG over takeout noodles.