My appendix ruptured at 2 a.m., and I called my parents seventeen times before the world began to blur. My mother finally texted back: “Your sister’s baby shower is tomorrow. We can’t leave now.”

“Holly, I don’t know what you want from here. I won’t force a place in your life. I won’t ask for anything you’re not ready to give. But I would like your permission to request a DNA test.”

My throat tightened.

My whole life had been shaped by people making decisions around me, over me, through me. Gerald asked.

That mattered.

“Yes,” I said.

My mother laughed once, sharp and desperate.

“This is absurd. She’s barely conscious. You can’t trust anything she says.”

Dr. Reeves stepped forward.

“Mrs. Crawford, you need to leave.”

My mother turned on him. “Excuse me?”

“This is a recovery ward, not a courtroom. You are upsetting my patient. If Holly wants visitors, they stay. If she wants anyone removed, they leave.”

My mother looked at me.

There it was.

The command.

The old silent order: fix this, Holly. Make me look good. Make me feel powerful again.

I took a slow breath.

“I want her removed,” I said.

The room went silent.

My mother’s eyes widened.

“What did you say?”

I looked at Maria.

“I don’t want Eleanor Crawford in my room.”

Maria nodded immediately. “Of course.”

My father stepped forward. “Holly—”

I looked at him.

For years I had wanted him to choose me. Once. Just once.