Page 73 of Letting Go

I smirk. “No, like… studying it. Becoming a doctor. The whole path you’ve been on since you were old enough to hold a stethoscope.”

Her brows pinch together, like the question physically hurts her. Like it’s never been asked before, not like this. Not with genuine curiosity.

She shrugs. Then shrugs again, harder. “I don’t know,” she says finally. “I used to. I think.”

“You think?”

“I wanted to make them proud,” she admits, tracing a droplet of condensation around her glass. “Mom always said I was the smart one. The ‘future doctor’ of the family. It wasn’t a question.”

I nod slowly, letting that sit between us. “And now?”

Keira’s silent for a long beat. “Now I just want to feel like I have a say. Like I get to want something and not be punished for it.”

I take a sip of my drink, heart twisting. “You do.”

She looks at me then, eyes wide and cautious, like she’s not sure if she believes it yet. But she wants to.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say. “You don’t have to have all the answers today. Just… maybe don’t settle for the life someone else already built for you.”

She gives me the smallest smile. Not fake. Not forced. Just fragile.

“Okay,” she whispers. “I’ll try.”

I let her finish her fries, give her a moment to enjoy the rare peace between us. Then I bring it up, gently, but directly.

“I noticed you haven’t been going to classes.”

Keira stiffens, her hand pausing mid-air with a fry halfway to her mouth. “Yeah,” she mutters. “I’ve been… tired.”

Tired. The kind of word people use when everything else is too heavy to name.

“I’m not judging,” I say. “I just want to understand. And if we’re looking at new places and new starts, we should be honest about where we’re starting from.”

Keira drops her gaze to her plate, picking at the crust of her sandwich. “It felt pointless. I don’t have any friends. Even the professors don’t like me.”

That hits me harder than I expect. Years of being micromanaged, isolated, treated like a doll instead of a person, it makes sense. Of course she doesn’t have friends. Of course, she feels invisible.

“Besides,” she continues, “midterms are about to start and everyone’s already in study groups.”

“Were you assigned one?” I ask.

She nods, slow and reluctant. “Yeah. But I didn’t go. Mom demanded to sit in and ‘make sure we were actually studying.’”

Of course she did.

“Alright,” I say, keeping my tone steady. “First thing you’re going to do is call your advisor and the studentoffice. You’re taking Mom and Dad’s access off your record, phone numbers, login permissions, everything. Second, ask if there are any late-forming study groups. Usually, there are a few for the latecomers.”

Keira hesitates. “If I cut Dad out, he’ll stop paying.”

“I know,” I say gently. “And I have savings. We’ll be okay.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but I cut her off. “Let me do this for you.”

Keira’s eyes well up with shiny, unspilled tears clinging to the edge.

“But you’ve already done so much,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

I reach across the table, wrap my fingers gently around her wrist. “And I’ll keep doing it, Keira. Not because I feel guilty. Not because I owe it to anyone. But because I want you to have the shot you were never given.”

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