The Daughter They Abandoned Is The Doctor They Can’t Reach Chapter 21
At the top of the post, my mother had used a photo from my graduation party.
In it, she and my father stood on either side of me. Tessa was holding my arm. On the table, the cake had both our names on it.
From that one image, we looked like a close family.
My mother wrote that they had always cared about both of us equally; they had simply used different parenting approaches.
Tessa had suffered the trauma of losing her mother and needed more care. I, on the other hand, had always been independent and had insisted on handling my own applications. They respected my choice and had even prepared an education fund for me early on.
As for my leaving on my own, she described it as “a communication misunderstanding between a teenager and her parents.”
At the end, she asked the media to stop speculating.
“We have never been absent from Nora’s life. However she may misunderstand us now, the door of our home will always be open to her.”
People were already apologizing in the comments.
Some said every family has its difficulties.
Others said that by avoiding any mention of my parents in interviews, I was being cold-hearted.
The reporter’s email contained only one question:
*Would you like to respond?*
I didn’t answer right away.
I finished the croissant, drank half the coffee, then logged into the email account where I had stored my application documents.
The files I had once printed out were still there in digital form.
The College Board fee-waiver approval. The payment confirmation for the eighty-five-dollar evaluation fee. Pay stubs from the bookstore. The one-way ticket purchased with the Amtrak gift card.
Every one of them was dated.
Then I found my mother’s old post in the community group.
It had been made on the fourth day after I left.
*Has anyone seen Nora lately? She doesn’t seem to be at home.*
I put the link and the files into one email. I didn’t write about my childhood. I didn’t explain my feelings.
The body of the message was only four sentences.
“These are the records I retained from my college application process and from when I left home. You may independently verify them with the College Board, the bookstore, and the school. Please do not use any private information I have not provided. Other than this, I will not be available for phone interviews.”
Before I sent it, I copied Ms. Alvarez.
She replied quickly, confirming that she was willing to explain to the reporter why the parental tax form had been verified by the school instead.
I hit send.
Just then, Eli dropped into the seat across from me with two books in his arms.
“Trouble?”
“Just some old business.”
I closed my email and opened my paper again.
“It’s handled.”