Years passed. I did well in school. I studied relentlessly. I climbed, rung by rung, toward the life everyone said I was destined for. College. Medical school. Residency. Each milestone felt like proof that everything she’d done had worked.
When she hugged me afterward, I was overflowing with pride—too much pride.
“See?” I said, laughing, drunk on achievement. “I climbed the ladder. You took the easy road and became a nobody.”
The words landed heavier than I expected. But she didn’t flinch. She just smiled—a small, tired smile—and said, “I’m proud of you.”
Then she left.
Three months passed. No calls. No messages. I told myself she was angry, that she needed space. I was busy anyway—new job, new city, new life. Guilt flickered occasionally, but I pushed it aside. She was strong. She always had been.
When I finally returned to town for a conference, I decided to visit her. No warning. I imagined a tense but manageable reunion—maybe some awkward silence, maybe forgiveness.
What I walked into instead shattered me.
The door was unlocked. The house felt wrong the moment I stepped inside. Too quiet. Too empty. Furniture gone. Walls bare where photos used to hang.
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