At the airport, my ticket was canceled.
I checked my phone.
Mom texted, “Have fun walking home, loser.”
Then Dad followed with, “Stop acting poor. Take a bus like you should.”
The terminal buzzed around me—families reuniting near baggage claim, business travelers rolling hard-shell suitcases over the tile, a TSA agent calling out instructions in a steady cadence that sounded like it had been rehearsed a thousand times. The overhead screens flickered with gate changes. A child somewhere cried the kind of exhausted cry that comes from too much airport and not enough sleep.
I stood at the ticket counter with my hands resting on the edge, like the laminate could keep me upright.
The airline representative shook her head with a sympathy that didn’t feel performative.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said quietly, lowering her voice the way people do when they know the truth will hurt. “But your reservation has been canceled. It shows here that the person who booked it requested a full refund about two hours ago.”
My fingers went cold.
Two hours ago.
That meant someone had done this on purpose. Someone had looked at the confirmation number, clicked cancel, and watched the refund land like a little victory.
I’d been at a medical conference for three days, presenting research that could change treatment protocols for pediatric cardiac patients. I had stood at a podium under harsh ballroom lighting while a hundred surgeons in lanyards nodded at my slides. I had answered questions about outcomes and complications with the calm certainty my hands had learned in the operating room.
The ticket home had been a gift from my parents.
Or so I thought.
A rare gesture of support for my work as a cardiovascular surgeon. A rare moment where they acted like they saw me.
My phone buzzed again, angry and impatient in my pocket. I pulled it out with shaking fingers.
Mom’s message glared up at me, the words sharp as broken glass.
Have fun walking home, loser. Maybe this will teach you some humility.
I read it twice, like the first time must be a hallucination.
Before I could even process the cruelty, Dad’s message came through.
Stop acting poor. Take a bus like you should. Your sister needs that money more than you need convenience.
I stared until the words blurred.
My sister.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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