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.”

Claire scoffed. “You’ve known him for five minutes.”

“And somehow he has done more for me in those five minutes than you have in twenty-six years.”

Claire’s face reddened.

Mother lifted one hand. “Enough. We are not here to trade insults.”

“Then why are you here?”

She inhaled slowly.

“I made mistakes.”

Gerald’s expression darkened.

My mother continued, eyes fixed on me.

“I was young. I was under pressure. My parents were controlling, and I had to make impossible choices. You cannot understand what it is like to be a young woman with no options.”

I stared at her.

There it was.

The performance.

The tragedy of Eleanor Crawford, starring Eleanor Crawford.

“You had options,” I said. “You just didn’t like the cost.”

Her mouth trembled.

“I raised you.”

“You resented me.”

“I fed you. Clothed you. Sent you to school.”

“Prisoners get food and clothing.”

Claire gasped. “That is disgusting.”

I looked at her.

“No, Claire. Disgusting is texting your sister that your baby shower matters more than her emergency surgery.”

“I didn’t know you were that sick!”

“I said I was going to the ER.”

“You’re always intense.”

I laughed once.

There was the family anthem.

Too dramatic.

Too sensitive.

Too intense.

Too much.