Summer 2018. Family vacation. My parents rented a lake house in Wisconsin. Four bedrooms. They invited everyone. Aunts, uncles, cousins.
Ashley got the master bedroom, king bed, private bathroom, lake view. I got the pullout couch in the den.
When I asked why, my mother said, “Ashley needs her space. You’ve always been fine with less.”
That trip, my father took Ashley out on the boat every morning, just the two of them, fishing, talking. He asked me once, “You want to come, Jenny?”
I was doing dishes from breakfast. “I’ll stay and help mom clean up.”
“That’s my girl,” my mother said. “Always so helpful.”
Ashley came back from those boat trips glowing, laughing, my father’s arm around her shoulders. I watched from the kitchen window, hands in sudsy water.
One afternoon that week, I was sitting on the dock reading. My uncle came and sat beside me.
“You doing okay, kiddo?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Fine.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “You know they’re proud of you, too, right?”
I didn’t answer.
“They just…” He paused. “They don’t know how to talk about what you do. Saving lives. That’s big. That’s scary. Ashley sells things. They understand that.”
“I know,” I said.
He patted my shoulder, left me there. I went back to my book, but I couldn’t focus on the words.
Ashley’s typical day looked like this. Wake up at 7:30. Peloton ride 30 minutes. Post a sweaty selfie on Instagram. Morning grind. 2,000 likes by 9:00 a.m. Shower, makeup, hair, outfit coordinated. Photograph-ready. Every day was content.
Meetings with doctors, lunch with clients, expenses paid by the pharmaceutical company. Steak dinners, wine, hotel, conference rooms, home by 6, dinner with Trevor or drinks with friends posted on Instagram. Date night at RPM Steak. 1,500 likes. Weekend trips. Napa, Nashville, Miami. Posted in real time.
My mother commented on every photo. Gorgeous. Have fun, sweetheart.
My parents called her every Sunday. Hour-long conversations. They asked about work, about Trevor, about her life.
They called me every third week. Fifteen-minute conversations.
“How’s work?”
“Good.”
“Okay. Well, we’ll let you go. You’re probably busy.”
My typical day. Wake up at 6:00 p.m. Night shift. Shower, scrubs, hair in a bun, no makeup. It’ll just sweat off. Drive to the hospital. Fourteen minutes if traffic is good. Park in the employee lot. Badge in. Second floor. PICU, 7:00 p.m. to 7 a.m.
Twelve hours. Three to four patients. Ventilators, four pumps, medication drips, vital signs every hour. Charting, endless charting. 2 a.m. vending machine dinner. Turkey sandwich. Bag of chips. Coffee from the breakroom. Tastes like burned rubber.
Parents sleeping in recliners next to their children’s beds. I bring them blankets. Coffee. Reassurance.
“She’s stable. I’m watching her closely. I’m not going anywhere.”
7 a.m. handoff report. Drive home. Sam’s leaving for his shift. As I’m getting back, we kiss in the doorway. Pass each other like ships. Sleep until 2:00 p.m. Wake up, eat, pay bills, grocery shop. Do it again.
No Instagram posts. No one comments. No one calls.
