I tried to sit up, wincing as pain shot through my abdomen. That’s when she grabbed my hair and yanked me upright. I gasped, clutching the bedframe, terrified I’d drop Noah if I lost my balance. From the hallway, my father snorted and said, “Please get her out of here. It’s making me uncomfortable.”
Something inside me cracked. I wasn’t a daughter in that moment—I was an inconvenience. I begged them to at least let me stay until my follow-up appointment. My mother scoffed. “You’re dramatic, like always. Lauren has priorities.”
I packed with trembling hands, blood spotting my bandage as I bent over. Noah started crying, his small face scrunching in confusion. My father avoided my eyes as he carried my suitcase to the door. No hug. No goodbye.
As I stepped onto the porch, barely steady on my feet, my mother called after me, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” The door slammed shut behind me.
Standing there in the cold with a newborn in my arms and nowhere to go, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Lauren: “Thanks for understanding. You always overreact anyway.” I felt my knees buckle—and that’s when I realized this wasn’t just cruelty. It was betrayal.