It was a world where my stepfather’s background was invisible, unwelcome.
Weeks passed in a blur of tasks and deadlines.
The tension at home grew when my stepfather fell ill the same year I defended my dissertation.
I juggled teaching assistantships and research, feeling like I navigated a tightrope without a safety net.
Now, just days after the ceremony, I brace myself for the upcoming faculty meeting where my application for a research grant will be evaluated.
The same committee that quietly questioned my background before will decide if my career can continue or stall.
I haven’t told my stepfather the full details—he deserves celebration, not worry—but the pressure mounts inside like the cement that once shaped his hands.
The applause has faded but the weight lingers, the future suddenly uncertain, and everything feels as fragile as the cement brick I hold.
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