Marcus, of course, remained a ghost. He never called on a single birthday. He never sent a single Christmas gift. Through mutual acquaintances, I heard he had remarried, this time to a younger woman, and they had a daughter. He boasted about the girl on social media, showing the world that he finally had the “perfect” family he always wanted. I won’t lie; it hurt deeply. But I didn’t let that pain consume me. I had more important things to do.
When Dante turned ten, the school called another meeting. He had already mastered all the elementary content. They recommended skipping him ahead. So, at ten years old, my son entered middle school. He was the shortest, the most different-looking, and spoke with a slight lisp—but he was undeniably the smartest person in the room.
In high school, his objective was razor-sharp: get into medicine. He studied with a discipline I had never seen in any teenager. He woke up at 5:00 in the morning, studied until 7:00, went to school, came back at 6:00 in the evening, and studied until 11:00 at night. He had no social life, no interest in parties. His only focus was the human body and how to fix it.
The university entrance exams were another battle. Not because he couldn’t do it academically, but because the prestigious medical schools were hesitant to accept a student with Down syndrome, regardless of his grades. I received calls from “well-intentioned” high school counselors telling me I was giving the boy false hope, that I should encourage him to look for a “more suitable trade.”
I ignored them all. I watched him at the kitchen table, surrounded by organic chemistry textbooks, and thought, To hell with your limitations.
The day of the entrance exam, I walked him to the university doors. He was nervous, sweating, but his jaw was set with that absolute determination I knew so well.
“I can do this, Ma,” he said, holding his breath.
“I know you can, Dante. You already have.”
