I kept my gaze fixed on the chart. “Thirty-two-year-old female, abdominal pain, fainting, pressure dropping. Get surgery on standby.”
My sister, Claire, was curled on the stretcher, her face gray and slick with sweat. Even behind the oxygen mask, her eyes widened with recognition.
“Emily?” she whispered.
I had pictured that instant through every lonely holiday, every overnight shift, every photo of family dinners where I had not been welcome. In my imagination, I gave a flawless speech and watched Claire’s smug expression shatter.
Real life allowed no room for speeches.
“Possible ruptured ectopic pregnancy,” I said. “Ultrasound now.”
Five years before, Claire had phoned our parents while I was preparing for my second-year pathology exam. She claimed I had flunked out of medical school, concealed gambling debts, and used my tuition money on a married professor. Pre-medresources
None of it was true.
