“You’ve always been convinced of it. And it’s never been true. Natasha is her own person and has the right to make her own decisions.” Suhani ignores the cramping in her feet. Why is she wearing four-inch Louboutin heels tonight? Only chic television doctors can get away with shoes like that. They’re way too painful for real life. She thought they’d be the ideal complement to her Huda Beauty smoky eye makeup and beaded black gown from Rent the Runway. The dress, shoes, and makeup were supposed to make her feel like a modern, sultry Princess Jasmine. Princess Jasmine if she was sleep deprived and had a histrionic mother.

“Okay, I think we need to change the topic,” Suhani says five minutes later.

“What? Why?” Mom’s eyes widen.

“Because, like I told you for the millionth time, we’re at an event where I’m getting an award, you can mingle with Dad’s coworkers, and everyone should take a break from the Natasha situation,” Suhani says. “You know this is the first time Zack and I have been able to even come to this because I had to work in the emergency room during my first and second years of residency.”

Suhani motions to the massive white banner that’s hung across the stage: celebrating our doctors. Every July, Atlanta Memorial Hospital hosts a reception to welcome new interns, give out faculty awards, and share upcoming news about the hospital. For this one night, doctors change out of their scrubs and into tuxes and gowns, drink champagne, and pretend they don’t have to be back at the hospital early the next morning. Dad and Mom have been coming to the event for the past fifteen years, since Dad started working at the Atlanta Memorial psychiatry clinic.

Mom gives a polite wave to one of Dad’s coworkers, a bald old white man who always wears a single gold earring and walks with a sterling silver cane. Mom nicknamed him “Mr. Clean with a limp” years ago. She always provides the most vivid descriptions of people: “that brooding man who doesn’t know how to shave” or “those sensuous women who men like getting massages from” or “that poor boy who always looks like he just licked a lemon.”

Now Mom points to a group of doctors in the corner of the room. “That woman in the front there is going through a divorce. Her son is a med student who wants to go into orthopedic surgery, but nobody knows if he’ll match. And that other woman behind her is a rheumatologist. Maybe you’ve seen her in some of my Instagram posts? She helps so many women at the temple with their arthritis. The man behind her just moved here from China. Someone in one of my WhatsApp groups told me he’s single and apparently a very good cook, so if you know anyone available . . .”