The hum of the ultra-low freezer was the only sound left in the world. Outside, Manhattan pulsed with light and chaos, but inside the Oncology Research Wing, time felt frozen. I caught my reflection in the lab glass—Dr. Caroline Wilson, exhausted, overworked, and quietly disappearing into my research. When my junior researcher gently told me to go home, I finally listened. On the subway ride back, fatigue won, and I opened Instagram. That’s when I saw my sister Jennifer—perfect smile, champagne glass raised, celebrating her anniversary at a luxury venue. The familiar ache returned.
Three years earlier, when our father was dying, I stayed beside his hospice bed while Jennifer stayed away. I fed him, read to him, and lied to our mother about Jennifer “trying to get a flight.” She arrived only after he passed, grief performed loudly and publicly, while quietly blaming me for being “too busy with work.” The lie stuck. She won sympathy, influence, and eventually most of the inheritance. I accepted it to protect our mother. From then on, I became the cold sister in her carefully crafted story.
