Priya
Everything changes on Tuesday. My mother calls while I’m walking to Jackson’s studio for our weekly tutoring session. I consider not answering, but that will only make things worse.
“Hi, Mom.”
“What about them?”
“We’re expecting you home. There’s a symposium at the hospital that weekend, several medical school deans will be attending. Perfect networking opportunity.”
“Mom, I was planning to stay here. I have exams—”
“Exams can be studied from anywhere. This is your future. You need to make connections.”
I’m so tired. So tired of being planned and managed and pushed toward a future I’m not sure I want anymore.
“I’ll think about it.”
“What’s there to think about? This is an incredible opportunity—”
“I said I’ll think about it.”I’ve never spoken to my mother like this, and it shocks me just as much.
Silence. My mother doesn’t handle being contradicted well.
“Priya, is something going on? You’ve been… different lately. Distracted.”
“I’m fine.” I lie.
“You’re not fine. Your anatomy professor emailed me—”
“She what?”
“She mentioned you’ve seemed less focused in class. That your attention has been elsewhere.”
“She had no right to contact you.” Now I’m angry, this is how much power my parents have, my teachers go straight to them, and not me.
“She’s concerned. As am I. Priya, you’re so close to achieving everything you’ve worked for. Medical school applications go out soon. This is not the time to lose focus.”
“I haven’t lost focus—”
“Then prove it. Come home for spring break. Attend the symposium. Show me that you’re still committed to this path.”
She hangs up before I can respond.
I stand there on the sidewalk, phone in hand, feeling the weight of expectations crushing down on me.
When I get to Jackson’s studio, he takes one look at my face and knows something’s wrong.
“What happened?”
I tell him about the call. About my mother’s ultimatum. About Professor Morrison’s email.
“She has no right to contact your mother about your academic performance,” Jackson says, his jaw tight.
“She does if she’s concerned about me.”
“Are you slipping in anatomy?” He asks.
“No. My work is still excellent. I just…” I sink onto his couch. “I’ve been less engaged in class discussions. Less eager to volunteer. More focused on the required work than going above and beyond.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“It is in my world. Excellence isn’t optional.”
Jackson sits beside me, taking my hand. “What do you want to do about spring break?”
“I don’t know. Part of me wants to go home, prove I’m still committed. Part of me wants to stay here. With you.”
“Then stay.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because disappointing my mother has consequences. She controls my trust fund, my car, everything. If I push too hard, she’ll cut me off.”
“Then let her.”
“Jackson, you don’t understand—”
“I understand that you’re letting fear of disappointing her control your entire life. I understand that you’re sacrificing what you want for what she wants. And I understand that if you keep doing this, you’re going to wake up one day and realize you’ve lived someone else’s life.”
“That’s easy for you to say. Your parents support you.”
“My parents support me because I stood up for what I wanted. Even when it was hard. Even when they didn’t understand.” He turns to face me. “Priya, you have to choose. Her expectations or your happiness. You can’t have both.”
“I shouldn’t have to choose.”
“But you do. That’s reality.”
Tears are sliding down my face now. “I don’t know how.”
“Start small. Stay here for spring break. Miss the symposium. Show her that you’re capable of making your own choices.”
“And if she cuts me off?”
“Then we figure it out together.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe that choosing myself is possible. But the fear is overwhelming.
“I need time to think,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Jackson—”
“I said okay. Take your time. But Priya?” He wipes a tear from my cheek. “Don’t take too long. Because eventually, not choosing is a choice too.”
I avoid the decision for three days.
Three days of going through the motions, attending classes, completing assignments. Three days of feeling like I’m standing at a crossroads and too paralyzed to move in any direction.
On Friday, I go to Jackson’s studio for our tutoring session. He doesn’t bring up the conversation from Tuesday, just helps me work through Chemistry problems like everything is fine.
But everything isn’t fine.
“I booked the plane ticket,” I say suddenly. “For spring break. I’m going home.”
Jackson’s pen stills. “You’re sure?”
“No. But I’m going anyway.”
“Because you want to or because you’re scared not to?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. It matters a lot.” He’s tone with the reply makes me look up at him.
I set down my textbook. “Jackson, I can’t be what you want me to be. Can’t be brave enough to choose myself over my family’s expectations. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not sorry. You’re scared.”
“Maybe I am. But that’s who I am. Someone who’s scared of disappointing people. Someone who follows the plan even when the plan makes her miserable.”
Even, I can’t hear it in my tone, unsure about it, the moment I think about it, maybe I can do this. Tell my parents no.
“That doesn’t have to be who you are.”
“But it is. And pretending otherwise isn’t fair to either of us.”
He stands, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “So what are you saying? That we’re done?”
“I’m saying… I don’t know. I’m saying this is too hard. That sneaking around and hiding and constantly worrying about getting caught is exhausting. Maybe we should take a break.”
“A break.”
“While I figure things out.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. This isn’t about needing space. This is about your mother’s phone call reminding you of all the reasons you shouldn’t be with me.” Now he is angry, and I don’t think I can blame him either.
Is this me running away from Jackson, or myself?
“Maybe it is. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am losing focus.”
“You’re not losing focus. You’re finding yourself. And that terrifies you.”
“Jackson—”
“No. You know what? If you want to end this, end it. But don’t pretend it’s about needing time or space or any other excuse. Be honest. You’re choosing your mother’s expectations over us.”
“That’s not fair,” I shout at him.
“Life’s not fair, Priya. You taught me that.” His voice is just as loud as mine now.
I grab my bag, needing to leave before I say something I’ll regret. Or worse, before I change my mind.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“So am I.”
I walk out, and it takes everything I have not to turn back.