On my second week, she handed back a draft of my fellowship proposal covered in red comments.
“This is good,” she said.
I stared at the pages. “It looks like it bled.”
“Good things can bleed and improve.”
I laughed nervously.
She studied me. “You apologize too much.”
“Sorry.”
Her eyebrow lifted.
I closed my mouth.
“Clara,” she said, “you are allowed to occupy the room you earned.”
That became my new lesson.
Not anatomy. Not protocols. Not grant writing.
Space.
I had to learn how to take up space.
My father called every day for two weeks. I did not answer. Then he texted.
We need to talk.
I replied once: I am not ready.
He wrote: I’m your father.
I stared at those words for a long time.
Then I typed: Then start acting like one.
He did not respond for three days.
Haley sent a message next.
I’m sorry about the ticket.
I read it between patients, standing beside a vending machine.
Then another message came.
I didn’t know you were the speaker.
That one made me close my eyes.
Not I’m sorry I took something that belonged to you.
Not I’m sorry I smiled while Dad pushed you out.
Not I’m sorry I let Mom treat you like staff.
Only: I didn’t know you were important enough for consequences.
I did not reply.
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