Before he left, Grandpa squeezed my hand. “When Diane returns,” he said, “she is going to learn that vacations do not erase consequences.”
Two weeks later, I was discharged from the hospital with a walker and a sling, forbidden from lifting any weight. Ethan drove me home while the caregiver settled Noah into his bassinet. For the first time since the accident occurred, I truly slept.
Three days after that, Mom called. It wasn’t to apologize—she was simply annoyed. “Why didn’t my transfer go through?”
“Because you told me to call someone else,” I replied calmly.
“That was one moment,” she snapped. “I had a cruise already booked.”
I listened to the sound of dishes clinking in the background, as if my life-altering emergency were old news. “Mom, I needed you. You chose to go on a vacation.”
“So now you’re punishing me? After everything I have sacrificed for you?”
Those words used to have power over me. They didn’t anymore.
Grandpa’s name flashed on my screen. I merged the calls together.
“Diane,” he said evenly, “I am coming by today. Make sure you stay home.”
