Instead, I had publicly crucified them in front of the medical elite.
The voicemails were pathetic.
“Sarah, it’s Mom. I know what you must think of us. We made a terrible mistake. But you’re doing so well now, and we’re facing foreclosure. Jessica can’t help us. Please, you’re a doctor now. You take an oath to help people. Call me back.”
Delete.
Two days later, an email from my father.
“Sarah, you humiliated us. We made the best financial decision we could at the time. You turned out fine, so clearly we didn’t ruin your life. We are your blood. You owe us at least a conversation, and some financial assistance. Call us.”
After the forty-seventh attempted contact, I finally sent one, single email in response.
“When I was thirteen, you told me I was a bad investment. You told me I was average. You threw me away so you wouldn’t lose your money. Rachel Torres invested her life into me. She is my mother. My money, my success, and my family belong to her. I owe you absolutely nothing. Enjoy your return on investment. Do not ever contact me again.”
I blocked their numbers, blocked their emails, and never looked back.
That was three years ago. I am thirty-one now. I am officially Dr. Sarah Torres, completing my elite fellowship in pediatric oncology at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. I spend my days walking into hospital rooms, looking terrified children in the eye, and promising them they aren’t fighting alone.
Rachel is still in Baltimore, working part-time now. I bought her a new car last year. We talk every single day. She is my mother, my anchor, and my absolute hero.
I heard recently that Linda and Robert lost their house. They are currently living in a cramped, one-bedroom apartment on the bad side of town, surviving entirely on meager social security checks. Jessica doesn’t speak to them. They have nothing, and no one.
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