The nurse wheeled me to the entrance and gently asked, “Is someone coming to pick you up?”
I said yes.
Because at that moment, I still believed my parents would come.
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?”
“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.
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.
Not when Tessa missed my graduation. Not when my parents used money meant for me to fund her engagement party. Not when I drove myself to urgent care with an infection because my mother was helping her shop.
Every family has patterns.
Ours was carved deep.
My father took the phone.
“Call a taxi, Maren. Don’t turn this into a scene.”
A scene.
I hung up quietly.
Not out of anger—but because I knew if I stayed on the line, I would cry.
So I called a taxi.
The driver asked if I was okay.
Because women like me are taught to say that—even when we’re not.
At home, I locked the door, took my medication, and slowly lowered myself onto the couch. Then I stared at the ceiling for a long time.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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