My family of doctors always treated me like the one who never measured up, and eventually they cut me out completely. Nine years later, I saw them again at my sister’s wedding.
The last word my mother ever called me in public was “defect.” She said it in a stone ballroom before nearly two hundred wedding guests, nine years after she had stopped treating me like her daughter. For one breathless second, nobody moved. The string quartet near the terrace doors had already fallen silent. Waiters stood…