My federal-loan servicer had sent an update.
Estimated monthly payment: $3,800.
I read it twice.
Then opened the refrigerator.
Almost empty.
Breakfast became instant ramen.
While the noodles softened, I made the mistake of opening Instagram.
Khloe had already posted from the St. Regis spa.
White robe.
Cucumber water.
Perfect lighting.
First day of the rest of my life. Debt-free and stress-free. Thank you, Mommy and Daddy. No loans, just vibes.
I looked at the noodles.
Then the peeling paint above the sink.
I had graduated near the top of our class.
Published two papers.
Earned one of the most competitive residency placements in the country.
And I was staring at a monthly debt payment larger than my rent while my sister celebrated being “free.”
Not because she had worked harder.
Because our parents had decided she deserved freedom more.
At 5:14 the following morning, Khloe called.
“I need you to cover my shift.”
I closed my eyes.
“Good morning to you too.”
“Brad’s mother arranged a private couture fitting tonight.”
“So?”
“I have trauma service.”
“Then go to work.”
“Zora.”
“No.”
“You don’t understand. This appointment is impossible to get.”
“I’ve been awake almost thirty-six hours.”
“Please.”
“No.”
Her voice changed.
Less sweet.
“You need the overtime.”
I opened my eyes.
“What?”
“Dad told me you’re panicking about your loans.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“A Saturday trauma shift pays well.”
“So now you’re doing me a favor?”
“Exactly.”
She laughed.
“You don’t have plans anyway.”
I said nothing.
“I have Brad. I have wedding things. You need money. Everybody wins.”
I stared at the water stain above my bed.
“Fine.”
“I knew you’d be sensible.”
Then she used the word.
“You’re the sturdy one.”
The call ended.
That night, a twenty-year-old arrived in the emergency department barely conscious after a serious chest injury.
My exhaustion vanished.
Training took over.
We stabilized him.
For nearly half an hour, the room became nothing but medicine.
Airway.
Breathing.
Circulation.
Procedure.
Medication.
Monitor.
Decision.
When the patient’s rhythm finally steadied, my arms were shaking.
I walked into the break room and sat down before my legs made the decision for me.
My phone lit up.
Instagram.
Khloe.
Doctors need rest too.
The video showed champagne.
Bridesmaids.
A luxury fitting room.
Then her caption:
Thanks to the best big sis for covering so I could have this moment. Family first.
I looked down at my stained scrubs.
Family first.
I almost laughed.
Then my email notification appeared.
MEDTECH INNOVATIONS.
FINAL REVIEW COMPLETE.
I opened it.
Dear Dr. Brooks,
The technical assessment of your microsurgical suturing system has concluded. Based on projected applications in neurosurgery, vascular reconstruction, and related specialties, MedTech Innovations is prepared to proceed with acquisition discussions.