My father barred me from entering my own medical school graduation ceremony because my stepmother wanted her daughter to use my ticket. “You’re just a nurse’s assistant anyway, let your sister have her moment,” my father sneered, pushing me toward the exit.

A burst of shrill, performative laughter erupted from the formal dining room as I stepped into the hallway.

“Oh my god, you guys, this sheer detailing is literally everything.”

It was my stepsister, Haley Hensley. She was standing in the center of the room, illuminated by the harsh, blinding halo of a professional ring light, live-streaming to her followers. She twirled in a designer trench coat that probably cost more than two months of my nursing assistant salary.

I kept my head down, my heavy canvas tote bag bumping against my hip. All I wanted was the dark sanctuary of my cramped basement bedroom. I had been awake for twenty-two hours. Between rotating patient beds in the pediatric oncology ward and secretly agonizing over the final statistical models for my doctoral thesis in the bio-lab, my mind was fraying at the edges.

As I tried to quietly skirt past the dining room archway, Victoria’s sharp voice snapped like a wet towel.

“Clara. Stop creeping around.”