The night before my medical school interview, my sister poured bleach on my only blazer, and my parents told me to stop making a scene.

I found it hanging over the bathtub at 11:42 p.m., dripping into the drain like something wounded. The black wool had turned a copper-orange color across the left shoulder and down the front pocket. The smell reached me first—sharp, chemical, unmistakable.

Behind me, my sister, Vanessa, leaned against the bathroom doorframe in her silk robe, twisting continue reading …