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.

“You looked beautiful,” she said.

“Thank you.”

My father cleared his throat. “We’re proud.”

I looked at him for a long moment. I had imagined that sentence for years. I used to think it would fix something.

It did not.

But it also did not hurt the way I expected.

“Thank you,” I said again.

My mother reached for my sleeve, then stopped herself. “Can we take continue reading …