“We’re picking up the cake and balloons for Tessa’s birthday. The bakery was delayed, and your father had to stop for candles she wanted.” Then, lowering her voice slightly, she added, “You’ll have to take a bus.”
I went silent.
“A bus?” I repeated.
“Well, yes. Or a taxi, if you prefer. You’ve already been discharged, so clearly you’re fine.”
Fine.
The night before, I had been in the emergency room, curled in pain, terrified it was my appendix. They caught it early, but I still needed surgery. I still had stitches. I still held a bag of medication in my lap.
And my parents were at the mall buying decorations.
“Mom,” I said carefully, “I just had surgery.”
“And Tessa only turns twenty-six once,” she snapped. “Don’t make this about you.”
There it was.
The unspoken rule of my entire life.
