All those nights studying over a cold sandwich, all those Saturdays balancing work and lectures, had become a history that no longer controlled my next decision.

I called my parents.

My father answered and asked whether I was eating properly.

My mother asked whether the hospital was treating me fairly.

Neither asked how much I had received.

I was grateful for their ordinary questions.

“I’m going to be all right,” I said.

My mother was silent for a moment.