“But no buts. You’re going to be a doctor. You’re going to save lives. You’re going to be extraordinary. That’s worth every penny.”
I cried when I opened that acceptance letter and Rachel cried with me. We’d done it. Together, we’d proven everyone wrong.
I spent four years at Johns Hopkins working harder than I’d ever worked in my life. Pre-med was brutal. Organic chemistry, physics, biology, endless labs and papers and exams. I called Rachel almost every night. Sometimes just to hear her voice. Sometimes to cry about a bad grade or a hard day.
“You can do this,” she’d say every single time. “You’re Sarah Torres. You beat cancer. You can beat anything.”
During my sophomore year, I came home for Christmas break and noticed Rachel looked tired. Thinner. I asked if she was okay and she waved me off.
“Just working extra shifts to help with your expenses. I’m fine, honey.”
I later learned she’d been working 50 to 60 hour weeks, picking up every extra shift she could to make sure I never had to worry about money. She never once asked me to get a job or contribute. She just worked herself to exhaustion so I could focus on school.
By my junior year, I was at the top of my class. By senior year, I was applying to medical schools and getting interviews at prestigious programs. And Johns Hopkins School of Medicine accepted me.
“Four more years,” I told Rachel on the phone when I got my acceptance. “Four more years, and I’ll be Dr. Torres.”
“I’m so proud of you. I could burst,” Rachel said. And I could hear the tears in her voice. “Your biological parents have no idea what they gave up.”
“They lost me,” I agreed. “But I gained you. I’d say I got the better deal.”
Medical school was even more intense than undergrad. The coursework was relentless, the clinical rotations exhausting, the pressure enormous. But I loved it. I loved learning how the human body works, how to diagnose diseases, how to help people heal. I specialized in oncology, wanting to help kids like the one I’d been.
Rachel came to every milestone, my white coat ceremony, my first day of clinical rotations, my residency match day. She was always there, always proud, always supportive.
And through all of this, 13 years of school, hundreds of miles between us, sometimes countless stressful nights and difficult days, I never heard from my biological parents. Not a single call, email, or text. They’d moved on with their lives, and I’d moved on with mine.
Or so I thought.
In April of my fourth year of medical school, I received the news that I’d been selected as valedictorian of my graduating class. Out of 120 brilliant students, I had the highest academic standing, the best clinical evaluations, and the strongest research record. I would give the student address at commencement.
I called Rachel immediately.
“Mom, I have news.”
She’d started asking me to call her mom during my sophomore year of college.
“You are my mom,” I’d said. “The only one who matters.”
“What’s the news, baby?”
“I’m valedictorian. I’m giving the speech at graduation.”
Rachel screamed so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear. Then she was crying and laughing and talking so fast I could barely understand her.
“I’m so proud of you. So incredibly proud. Your speech is going to be amazing. You’re going to change the world, Sarah. I always knew it.”
Graduation was scheduled for May 20th. Rachel asked for the day off from work months in advance. She bought a new dress. She invited all her friends, my aunts and uncles, the people who’d become my family. It was going to be a celebration.
Two weeks before graduation, I got an email from the university’s events coordinator. Due to my status as valedictorian, I was allowed to submit additional names for reserved seating beyond the standard two guest allocation. I immediately added names. Rachel, of course, plus six of her closest friends who’d become family to me.
The coordinator responded quickly.
“We actually have one additional request for your reserved section. Linda and Robert Mitchell have contacted us claiming to be your parents and requesting seats. Should we add them to your list?”
I stared at that email for a full five minutes. Linda and Robert Mitchell, my biological parents, the people who’d abandoned me at 13, who told me I was average and not worth saving, who’d chosen my sister’s college fund over my life. They wanted to come to my graduation.
I picked up the phone and called Rachel.
“Mom, my biological parents want to come to graduation.”
There was a long pause.
“How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know. Part of me wants to tell them to go to hell. Part of me wants them to see what I became despite them. What do you think I should do?”
“It’s your day, honey. Your accomplishment. Whatever you want, I’ll support. But if you ask my opinion, let them come. Let them see exactly what they threw away. Let them see the woman you became with a real mother by your side.”
I thought about it for a long time. Then I emailed back. “Yes, add them to the reserved section.” I wanted them there. I wanted them to see.
The next two weeks passed in a blur of final exams, packing up my apartment and writing my valedictorian speech. I didn’t tell Rachel what I was planning to say. I wanted it to be a surprise.
May 20th dawned bright and clear. Johns Hopkins commencement was held at Royal Farms Arena in Baltimore with seating for over 10,000 people. Graduates from all schools, medicine, nursing, public health, all of Hopkins would be there along with their families.
I arrived early for the graduate lineup. My white coat was pressed, my honor cords arranged perfectly. I was wearing Rachel’s necklace, the one with our intertwined initials, and the ring she’d given me on my 18th birthday.
As we were organizing by school and academic standing, one of the event coordinators approached me.
“Dr. Torres.”
They called us doctors even though we hadn’t officially graduated yet.
“Your guests are seated in section A, row three. Is there anything you need?”
