The physician explained that I had sustained a fractured pelvis and a torn ligament in my shoulder. “You’ll be here for several days,” she told me gently. “And you will not be able to lift your baby for quite some time.”
My husband, Ethan, was stranded in Seattle because of a major storm delay. Noah’s cries rang out down the hallway while a nurse attempted to awkwardly rock him in my sister’s spare car seat.
I placed a call to my mother, Diane. She lived only twenty minutes away. For nine years—ever since my father passed away and she claimed she was “overwhelmed”—I had sent her $4,500 every single month to pay for her mortgage, utilities, and insurance. I never questioned the necessity. I simply made the payments.
She answered with a cheery tone. “Hi, sweetheart! I’m currently packing.”
“Mom, I’m in the hospital,” I said. “I was in an accident. I need you to take Noah tonight. Just for tonight.”
There was a brief silence, followed by a familiar, heavy exhale. “Lauren, I simply can’t. I have plans.”
“I am unable to even stand up,” I whispered. “He is only six weeks old.”
“Your sister doesn’t have these emergencies,” she answered sharply. “Ashley manages her life. You always bring the drama.”
