I worked two jobs to help fulfill my husband’s dream of becoming a doctor — at his graduation, he handed me divorce papers, but just as I was walking away, one of his classmates said, “Before you leave, there’s something you should know.”

Dr.

Okafor was quiet for a moment.

“And now?”

“The circumstances have changed.”

He looked back at the file.

“You’ve been out for six years.

Re-entry at this stage isn’t a simple process.

You’d need to sit the re-entry assessment.

There may be coursework you’d need to revisit depending on your scores.

You’d be starting behind your original cohort.”

“I understand that.”

“It would likely be two to three years before you’d be where you would have been if you’d stayed.” He paused.

“That doesn’t discourage you?”

“No,” I said.

“I’m thirty-one.

In three years I’ll be thirty-four either way.”

Something shifted in his expression.

Not quite a smile.

The expression of a man who had heard that logic before and still found it correct.

“The re-entry assessment has two sittings per year,” he said.

“The next one is in eleven weeks.”

“I know.

I looked it up before I called you.”

He closed the folder.

“I can’t promise you a place.