Page 22 of Stolen Moments

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.”

“Priya. We need to talk about your spring break plans.”

“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.”