The day my parents finally walked into my clinic, the numbers were already printed in black and white.
Eight point two million dollars.
That was the projected annual revenue on the quarterly report spread across my glass desk, highlighted in soft yellow by my office lamp. New consults booked six months out. Complication rate under one percent.
Referral rate pushing ninety percent.
Metrics any surgeon in Boston would kill for.
My name was etched on the frosted glass door behind me in clean, brushed metal letters: SIENNA HAYES, MD – AESTHETIC & RECONSTRUCTIVE SURGERY.
It still made something in my chest go quiet every time I saw it.
Sarah buzzed my intercom. “Dr.
Hayes? They’re here.”
I didn’t have to ask who “they” were.
The air in the building had shifted the second they stepped off the elevator.
Old money and old expectations had a smell, some mix of expensive perfume, winter wool, and quiet judgment.
“Send them in,” I said.
The door opened, and there they were, perfectly framed in the doorway like a family portrait that had never quite included me. My father in his tailored navy suit, tie knotted with surgical precision. My mother in a cream cashmere coat, pearls at her throat.
Marcus slightly behind them, trying to look casual in an expensive blazer and the kind of watch most residents could never afford without a trust fund.
They all looked around my office like they were touring a museum exhibit, taking in the floor‑to‑ceiling windows, the framed diplomas, the subtle abstract art on the walls.
There was a moment where I watched them realize this wasn’t some strip‑mall Botox shack.
This was real.
“Si,” my father said, pasting on a smile. “Your place is… impressive.”
My mother nodded, lips pursed.
“Very modern. Very… successful.
We’ve been hearing quite a bit about you.” She rested a leather portfolio on her lap as she sat.
Marcus carried another one.
Partnership papers.
They didn’t have to say it. I could see the tabs, the highlighted sections, the neat little Post‑its marking signature lines. Two years earlier, not a single Hayes had been willing to step foot in this building because they “didn’t want the family name associated with my inevitable failure.”
Now they had arrived with contracts.
I leaned back in my chair and folded my hands, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make Marcus clear his throat.
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