“My kids,” I gasped, trying to rise, only to be forced back by pain. “Lily and Lucas. The babysitter leaves at eight.” Marcus checked his watch. “It’s 7:15.” Forty-five minutes. That was all I had to secure care for my children before doctors opened me up.
My blood-slick fingers fumbled for my phone. I called my parents. It rang four times. “Myra?” My father answered sharply, traffic noise and radio music in the background. “We’re about to head out. What is it?”
“Dad, I need help,” I said between ragged breaths. “There’s been an accident. I’m in an ambulance. I need surgery. Please—the twins. Just for a few hours.” Silence. Then muffled voices. My mother’s clipped tone. Vanessa’s unmistakable, chiming laugh.
“Hold on,” he said. The line went dead. A moment later, my phone buzzed. Family Group Chat. My mother’s message appeared: “Myra, you’ve always been a nuisance and a burden. We have Taylor Swift tickets with Vanessa tonight. We’ve been planning this for months. Figure it out yourself.”
I read it twice. The words stayed the same. Then my father: “You’re a doctor. You’re used to hospitals. Don’t turn this into something bigger than it is.” Then Vanessa: [Laughing Emoji]
Marcus was watching me. He saw something extinguish behind my eyes—and it wasn’t blood loss. “Myra?” he asked quietly. “What did they say?” I couldn’t answer. Something essential cracked inside me.
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