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.

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

Behind her, I could hear plates, football, and relatives laughing. For a moment, I missed home so badly I closed my eyes.

Then she asked, “So how’s the new job?”

I frowned. “You mean residency?”

“Right. Yeah. That.”

Something in her voice made me sit up.

“What did Dad tell you?”

She hesitated.

“Nothing bad.”

“Natalie.”

She sighed. “He said medicine didn’t work out. That you moved into something administrative. Which is totally fine, obviously.”

I looked down at cracker crumbs on my scrub pants.

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