At my twin sister’s graduation, my father lifted his camera for her name—then the dean said, “Please welcome Francis Townsend, our valedictorian and Whitfield Scholar,” and the man who once told me, “You’re smart, but you’re not special. There’s no return on investment with you,” went completely still as I walked toward the podium he never imagined I’d stand on.

I didn’t know then how right I’d be. And I didn’t know that somewhere on the Eastbrook campus, there was a professor who would see something in me that my own parents never could.

Freshman year, Thanksgiving. I sat alone in my tiny rented room, phone pressed to my ear, listening to the sounds of home. Laughter in the background, the clink of dishes, the warm chaos of a family gathering I wasn’t part of.

“Hello? Francis?”

Mom’s voice was distant, distracted.

“Hi, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, yes. Happy Thanksgiving, honey. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Is Dad there? Can I talk to him?”

Pause. Then I heard his voice in the background, muffled but clear.

“Tell her I’m busy.”

The words landed like stones.

Mom’s voice returned, artificially bright.

“Your father’s just in the middle of something. Victoria was telling the funniest story.”

“It’s fine, Mom.”

“Are you eating enough? Do you need anything?”

I looked around my room, at the instant ramen on my desk, at the second hand blanket, at the textbook I’d borrowed from the library because I couldn’t afford to buy it.

“No, Mom. I don’t need anything.”

“Okay. Well, we love you.”

“Love you, too.”

I hung up.

Then I opened Facebook. The first thing in my feed was a photo Victoria had just posted: Mom, Dad, and Victoria at the dining table. Candles lit. Turkey gleaming.

The caption: Thankful for my amazing family.

My amazing family.

I zoomed in on the photo. Three place settings. Three chairs, not four. They hadn’t even set a place for me.