My younger cousin pointed at the scar on my forearm at the family reunion. She's twelve and full of questions.
I told her it was from a bull my grandfather raised. A Hereford with a mean streak and a name I won't repeat.
She asked if it hurt. I said yes, but not as much as leaving the ranch did.
She didn't understand that. I didn't expect her to.
The jury summons is still on the fridge door. I'm supposed to report next week. My mother clipped it there the day it came, proud I was 'part of the system.'
First one in the family to get a degree, and she frames it like I'm a civic monument now.
But the scar is what people ask about. Not the diploma, not the job at the clinic.
I stopped explaining the difference between vet tech and vet years ago. I just let them think what they want.
The scar is the only part of my story they can see. Maybe that's enough.