My sister and I walked the same road—same medical school, same sleepless nights. But when it was over, our parents cleared her debt… and left mine behind.

On my second Friday in Baltimore, Dr. Fleming slid a stack of forms across her desk. “You’re officially the principal analyst of Cohort A,” she said. “It’s more administrative headache than glory, but it means the committee trusts your brain.” Then, softer, “Your brain is not the only thing we need, Audrey. Protect your sleep. Call your sister. Call your therapist if you need one. Excellence without a human attached to it is just a paperweight.”

I nodded, trying not to make a joke. I had spent so many years proving I could do hard things that I sometimes forgot to be a person while I did them.

Two weeks later, a thick envelope arrived from home. My parents had mailed printed photos from Jessica’s celebration, as if the night would look kinder on glossy paper. There I was, slightly off-center in frame after frame, smiling politely while my parents steered conversations back to Jessica with the social grace of seasoned surgeons. Tucked among the photos was a handwritten note in my mother’s looping script: We are proud of both our girls. Dinner when you’re home? Love, Mom. Below, in my father’s careful print: Very proud. Dad.