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.”

“No. I didn’t know for sure. But I knew this: either you were my daughter, or you were a young woman whose own mother was trying to drag her out of a hospital bed after she nearly died. Either way, you needed someone standing there who wasn’t willing to let that happen.”

For the first time since waking, the tightness in my chest loosened.

Not completely.

But enough that I could breathe.

The door opened then, and a nurse stepped inside carrying a small tray of medicine. Her name badge read Maria. She smiled at Gerald first, then me.

“How are we doing?”

I did not know how to answer.

Alive seemed too small.

Destroyed seemed too dramatic.

Reborn seemed too frightening.

“Confused,” I said.

Maria gave a soft laugh. “That’s fair. Pain?”

“Seven.”

“Let’s bring that down.”

As she adjusted the IV line, Gerald stood.

“I should let you rest.”

Panic flared through me so sharply that it surprised us both.

“Don’t go.”

The words came out before pride could stop them.

Gerald froze.

Then his whole face softened.

“I won’t go far.”

Maria glanced between us, understanding more than she said. “Visiting hours are flexible in this ward for immediate family.”

Gerald looked at me.

The question hung there.

Immediate family.