That afternoon, while I drifted in and out of shallow sleep between nurses checking my vitals and the burning ache of breastfeeding, my parents packed my belongings at the house. They did not call me. They did not ask what I wanted to keep. They decided everything without me.
Two hours before my discharge, Linda returned with a large gym bag and dropped it onto the chair beside my bed.
“These are the essentials,” she said. “Clothes, toiletries, baby things. The rest has been stored.”
My stomach tightened.
“Stored where,” I asked.
She let out a long sigh.
“In the basement,” Linda replied. “Evan needed the room cleared today. His equipment arrived this morning.”
Heat flooded my face, a mixture of shame and disbelief. I tried to protest, but she waved her hand dismissively.
“It was just a room,” she said. “You are acting like we threw you out onto the street. You have somewhere to stay. Stop playing the victim.”
Those words cut deeper than the surgery. When I was discharged, a nurse helped me into a wheelchair while Linda carried Aaron’s carrier. Richard walked ahead, already focused on his phone. I assumed we were going home.
