So I climbed.
I studied relentlessly, convinced education was my way out. Unlike Claire, I went to college. Unlike Claire, I was allowed to dream beyond survival. She never complained. Never asked for gratitude. She simply carried the weight of both our lives so I could rise above it.
Years passed. I became a doctor.
On graduation day, the auditorium buzzed with applause. Claire sat in the back row, hair pulled into a neat bun, her face glowing with quiet pride. When I crossed the stage and held my diploma, I felt invincible.
And in a moment of arrogance—born not of truth, but of pride—I turned to her and said words that would scar us both:
“See? I climbed the ladder. You took the easy road and became a nobody.”
The words were sharp. Cruel. Unforgivable.
Claire didn’t argue. She didn’t cry. She gave me a small, tired smile—and walked away.
For three months, there was silence. No calls. No messages. I told myself she was angry, that she needed time. I buried myself in work, pretending success excused everything.
But guilt never stayed quiet.
Eventually, I went home.
The town felt smaller than I remembered. The sidewalks were cracked, the air heavy with memory. My chest tightened as I approached the modest house where Claire had raised me.
I opened the door expecting her voice—maybe anger, maybe relief.
There was only silence.
