Years earlier, Thomas Higgins had looked at his sick thirteen-year-old daughter and called her average. He had protected Megan’s future because he believed mine wasn’t worth the investment, never imagining that the daughter he discarded would one day stand on a graduation stage wearing a doctor’s coat.
But the greatest victory wasn’t becoming valedictorian, changing my surname, or watching my biological parents discover what I had accomplished without them. It was realizing that I no longer needed any of those things to prove they had been wrong.
Before we walked toward the parking lot, Laura glanced once more at the embroidery over my heart.
“Dr. Davidson. That sounds pretty good.”
I smiled at her.
“It sounds like home.”
And for the first time, the name Higgins felt exactly where it belonged.
In my past.
