The call came on December 18th. I was in a board meeting discussing our Q4 projections when my phone lit up on the table. My younger sister Rachel’s name flashed across the screen, then vanished.
I let it go to voicemail. By the time the meeting ended, I had three missed calls from her and one text. Call me about Christmas.
I stepped into my corner office on the 14th floor of Boston Medical Center’s research tower, closed the glass door behind me, and called her back. “Finally,” Rachel said. Her irritation was already sharp enough to cut through the line.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“I was in a board meeting. What’s going on?”
“It’s about Christmas Eve. Mom and Dad’s annual party.” She paused, just long enough for me to hear the discomfort underneath the performance.
“We need you to skip it this year.”
I set my coffee down on the edge of my desk. “Excuse me?”
“Look, don’t make this a big thing. It’s just that my boyfriend is coming.
Dr. Marcus Chin. He’s a cardiothoracic surgeon at Mass General, and he’s kind of a big deal.
He’s being considered for department head, and I’ve told him about our family. About how successful we all are. Dad’s accounting firm, Mom’s interior design business, me working in pharmaceutical sales…”
She trailed off.
“But not about me,” I said. “Natalie, come on. You know how it is.
You’re thirty-four, still single, living in that tiny apartment, working some hospital job we don’t really understand. Marcus comes from a family of doctors and academics. If he meets you and realizes you’re… well, struggling, it’s going to raise questions about our family.”
I looked across my office at the framed Fortune magazine cover on the wall.
The future of healthcare technology: Meet Dr. Natalie Morrison, 32, whose AI platform is saving lives. Beside it hung the Inc.
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