I had texted them earlier that morning after the doctor cleared me. Nothing dramatic—just the facts: minor surgery, no complications, I was stable but sore, and I needed a ride because I wasn’t allowed to drive. My mother responded with a thumbs-up emoji. My father didn’t reply, which in my family usually meant he had already made a decision silently.
So I sat outside under the pale Kentucky sky, one hand resting over the bandage beneath my sweater, trying not to wince every time I shifted.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
Then my phone rang.
It was my mother.
Relief came too quickly. “Hi… are you close?” I asked.
Her voice was bright, distracted. “Sweetheart, we’re at Brookside Mall.”
For a moment, I thought I had misheard. “What?”
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