She dropped out of college without telling anyone. Took two jobs. Learned how to make a grocery list stretch far beyond what it should have. Learned how to turn exhaustion into a smile so convincing that even I believed her when she said, “We’re going to be okay.”
And somehow, we were.
Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
Growing up, I focused on school. She focused on survival. While I buried myself in textbooks, she learned how to negotiate bills, manage landlords, and stretch paychecks until they nearly disappeared. I rarely saw her rest. When I did, she insisted she was just tired, nothing more.
I believed her. Or maybe I wanted to.
Years passed quickly. I did well in school. Very well. Teachers praised me. Counselors encouraged me. Everyone said I had a bright future. College acceptance letters arrived. Then medical school. Then residency. Each achievement felt like proof that her sacrifices were working.
