At first, I didn’t contact my family. But when doctors warned that the next two days would determine whether she lived, I swallowed my pride and called. My mother answered, irritated rather than worried. “Why are you calling during dinner?” she asked. When I told her Lily was in intensive care, my voice trembling, there was a pause—followed by a sigh.
“That’s unfortunate,” she said. “But we’re very busy this week. Your sister’s party is coming up.”
None of them came. Not my parents. Not Victoria. No texts. No flowers. Nothing.
So I stayed silent and focused on my child—until my mother called again.
“Your sister’s party is tomorrow,” she said coldly. “If you don’t show up, you’re no longer part of this family.”
I was stunned. I tried once more to explain that Lily was still unconscious, that I couldn’t leave her side, that she might not survive.
Before I could finish, Victoria snatched the phone. She was yelling. “Stop hiding behind your kid! You always make excuses. Everything has to be about you. If you actually cared about this family, you’d show up for once.”
The call ended abruptly.
I stood there staring at my phone, my hands trembling, my pulse racing—not from fear anymore, but from something far colder. That was the instant they went too far.
