When I got into medical school, my parents said I was on my own, though my younger brother’s bills were always paid. I borrowed everything and made it alone. Nine years later, at his wedding, his new brother-in-law locked eyes with me and froze right there: “You’re the chief of…” “Hush. She is.”
The first scream came before the champagne toast. One second, my younger brother Marcus was laughing beside his bride under strings of vineyard lights. The next, Jenna’s father collapsed against the head table, knocking over three glasses and clawing at his throat. His lips were turning blue.
“Somebody call 911!” I shouted, already moving.
The best man stood closest to him, frozen with two hands in the air like he had forgotten what a body was. People were yelling his name. Ryan. Jenna’s brother. A heart surgeon, according to my mother, who had spent the whole cocktail hour praising him while calling my job “some hospital thing in Ottawa.”
I dropped to my knees, checked the airway, barked for the emergency kit, and asked what he had eaten. Someone shoved an EpiPen into my palm. I used it, kept his airway open, and ordered Marcus to get everyone back.
For once, my brother listened.
My mother grabbed my shoulder. “Claire, let Ryan handle it. He’s a real surgeon.”
I didn’t look at her. “So am I.”
Ryan’s head snapped toward me.
The ambulance arrived seven minutes later. By then, Jenna’s father was breathing again. The paramedic asked who had started treatment. I gave a quick report, calm and clipped, the way I did in trauma rooms.
