The physician looked at me closely. “Your initial intervention was excellent. Whoever stabilized her at the scene knew exactly what they were doing.”
Behind me, my family shifted uncomfortably. For years, they had dismissed my grief and the life I built after Clara disappeared. They treated me as the “sensible twin” who simply managed to move on, while Clara remained frozen in their minds as the lost child.
“I stabilized her,” I said quietly.
The doctor offered a slight smile. “I know.” He then looked toward my family, his gaze sharp. “And apparently, no one mentioned that you’re a trauma surgeon.”
An absolute silence fell over the room. My family stared at me, then down at my hands—the same hands that had reflexively reached for two pastries for ten years, the same hands that had finally learned to accept Clara’s absence, and the same hands that had just saved her life.
