Dr. Lawson wrote letters, Susan Myers handled the social-services requirements, and eventually the name printed across my school documents changed from Higgins to Davidson. Until then, I had never understood that a surname could feel like shelter, but Davidson represented something my biological name never had: someone had chosen me and stayed.
The years that followed brought remission appointments, medical checkups, college applications, scholarships, campus jobs, and countless nights studying over cups of coffee that had gone cold hours earlier. Laura worked extra shifts whenever I needed financial help, while I worked whatever jobs I could fit around school, and eventually I became the person my biological father had once declared I wasn’t worth becoming.
Medical school was especially exhausting, filled with anatomy labs, aching feet, endless textbooks, and moments when I genuinely wondered whether I could continue. On those nights, I would sometimes call Laura from a stairwell, and regardless of how tired she was, she always answered.
“Cry for ten minutes, then eat something.”
Other times, when I felt guilty simply for being exhausted, she reminded me that fatigue didn’t mean failure.
“You are allowed to be tired without quitting.”
