The Daughter They Abandoned Is The Doctor They Can’t Reach Chapter 02
On the morning of my interview, my father set the car keys back on the entryway table.
“You’ll have to take the bus downtown.”
I looked up from my cereal.
A week ago, he’d promised to drive me. My alumni interview was at ten-thirty, at a café in the city center.
“Tessa’s therapist emailed last night,” my mother explained. “She’s been an emotional wreck lately. It’s better if she isn’t alone. We’re going with her to the appointment.”
“All of you?”
My father frowned.
“Nora, she lost her mother. This is when a family needs to be there for her.”
Tessa stood at the foot of the stairs, looking apologetic.
“What if Uncle takes you and Auntie goes with me?”
“No.” My mother shut that down immediately. “We need to talk to the therapist after the session.”
Then she turned to me.
“The bus is easy enough. You’re always so good at managing your time.”
My cereal had gone soggy.
I finished the last two bites, picked up my folder, and walked out the door.
The bus ride required one transfer, so I got to the café an hour early.
A few other students were already standing outside.
One boy was in a suit while his mother smoothed his collar. A girl’s father held her coat, reminding her over and over to speak slowly. Another set of parents circled their son, promising to take him out for his favorite steak afterward.
“Don’t be nervous.”
“You’re well-prepared.”
“Just be yourself in there.”
The glass door reflected my own image.
Navy shirt. Black slacks. A folder with slightly worn corners.
I straightened my collar and pushed my way inside.
The interviewer was an alumnus who had graduated eight years earlier. He had scheduled forty minutes for me, but we ended up talking for nearly an hour.
He asked about the independent research project I’d done.
I showed him the data and explained how I’d used public information to analyze transit access across different neighborhoods in Pittsburgh, and how I’d corrected the model without an external mentor.
“You did all of this on your own?”
“Yes.”
“The coding and the data cleaning, too?”
“All of it.”
He read through the abstract twice, pressed me on a few details, then closed the file.
“Nora, you know exactly what you want to do.”
When the interview ended, he offered his hand.
“I’m going to make a special note of this project in my feedback.”
When I walked out of the café, parents immediately closed in around their children.
“How did it go?”
“What did they ask?”
“Was it easier than you thought?”
I stood under the bus stop sign and checked the route home.
When I got back, a white sheet was spread across the middle of the living room floor.
Tessa’s new painting sat on top of it. Against a gray-blue background, a faceless woman stood behind a door.
My father was crouched on the floor studying the composition. My mother held up her phone, changing angles to photograph it.
“The therapist said she should keep expressing her grief through painting,” my mother said. “Doesn’t this one feel more powerful than the last?”
“The image of the door works well,” my father agreed.
When Tessa saw me, she asked, “Your interview’s over?”
“It is.”
“That’s good.”
A second later, my mother called her over to stand by the painting for a photo.
No one asked what the interviewer had said.
A few days later, I got an email from the alumnus.
It was a long note. He wrote that my research ability and self-expression were far beyond the level he expected from a high school student, and he recommended that I apply for a separate STEM scholarship offered by the university.
At the bottom of the message was the application link.
I read it aloud to my parents.
My father was helping Tessa choose a portfolio cover. When I finished, all he said was, “Oh. That’s good.”
“The deadline is in two weeks.”
“Then apply.”
I clicked on the requirements.
In addition to grades and recommendation letters, I needed to submit a digital portfolio for departmental review. The upload and evaluation fee was eighty-five dollars, which wasn’t covered by the standard application fee waiver.
The moment my mother heard the amount, she looked up.
“Why does this cost money, too?”
“It’s for a separate scholarship application.”
“You’ve already applied to enough schools.” She frowned. “If you pay for every extra program with no guarantee of getting anything, what’s the point?”
“The alumnus told me I should try.”
My father scrolled to another painting.
“That’s an extra. If you want to apply, figure it out yourself.”
Tessa, sitting beside him, spoke softly.
“I can use my allowance to help pay for it.”
My mother’s expression softened at once.
“No, sweetheart. That’s for your art supplies.”
Then she turned to me, her voice cold again.
“If you were half as considerate as Tessa, you’d know how much we’ve been spending lately. Her therapy, her portfolio coaching, her application materials—none of that is free.”
I closed the email.
“I understand.”
The next day, I asked my bookstore manager for two more weekend shifts.
For the next two weeks, I opened the store on Saturday morning and stayed until after inventory at night. On Sundays, I came in again to sort returns and haul boxes of new books into the stockroom.
The edges of the boxes sliced thin cuts into my fingers.
My knees ached from standing so long.
On my lunch break, I sat on the stockroom steps eating a sandwich I’d brought from home and checked the portfolio instructions again.
Two weeks later, my paycheck came through.
I logged into the application portal and paid the eighty-five dollars from my own account.
When the payment confirmation page appeared, there were no fireworks, no applause.
Just one line of green text:
Materials submitted.
I printed the confirmation page, put it in an envelope with the signed forms, and went to the post office alone.
The clerk weighed it, printed the barcode, and dropped the envelope into the mailbag behind her.
It was the first time I had used money I earned myself to buy a chance at my own future.
On the bus ride home, a mother and daughter sat across from me.
The girl tucked one earbud into her mother’s ear, and the two of them leaned together, listening to music. A bit of bright percussion leaked out, and the mother smiled, bumping her daughter’s shoulder.
I lowered my head and lit up my phone.
In the family group chat, my mother had posted a picture of Tessa’s new painting.
My father replied with three clapping emojis.
No one knew my materials had already been mailed.
I looked out the window as the screen went dark again.
Not a single message asked how it was going.