Eric had gone out to pick up antibiotics, gauze, and postpartum supplies that the hospital had recommended.
I was resting in my old bedroom while my daughter Ava slept beside me in a small bassinet, and every movement I made sent pain through my abdomen.
My mother Diane received a phone call that afternoon, and her expression changed the moment she hung up.
She walked into the room and said coldly, “Your sister is coming over with her baby, and she needs this room more than you do.”
At first I thought she was joking, because even she could not be that cruel to someone who had just gone through surgery.
My younger sister Brittany had always been the center of attention in that house, and I had spent years stepping aside for her comfort.
“Mom, I can barely move without pain,” I told her, trying to stay calm while holding my side.
“Please let me rest until Eric gets back, and then we can figure something out together.”
She did not hesitate or soften her tone at all.
“You are fine enough to pack your things, so start now and stop making excuses,” she replied sharply.
My father Steven leaned against the doorway, refusing to meet my eyes as if my suffering was an inconvenience to him.