My sister and I were driving home to our parents’ house when we were in a serious car accident. My parents called 911. As soon as they arrived, they ran past my shattered door and straight to my sister. They carefully lifted her and stepped over my body on the asphalt while I crawled toward them with a broken leg and a broken arm, begging for help.

“Melissa!” My mother’s voice was shrill and terrified. “Oh my God, Melissa, a baby!”

I watched through the crack where my window used to be as they surrounded my sister, who was now sitting in the backseat of the ambulance, wrapped in a blanket. She was crying, reaching for them. The paramedics were explaining her condition.

Stable. Baby’s heart rate is strong. Possible concussion, but overall, happy considering the circumstances.

“Mom,” I called out weakly. “Mom, I’m still here.”

No one turned around.

The firefighters continued working at my door. One of them, a young man with kind eyes, kept talking to me, trying to keep me conscious.

“Stay with me, okay? We’re…

The painkillers made time pass strangely. Hours blurred into days. I woke from restless sleep, unsure if minutes or weeks had passed. Physiotherapists came to examine me, explaining the long road ahead with a practiced gentleness that sounded like pity.

My surgeon visited me once, satisfied with the placement of the implant in my leg, and already thinking about his next patient.

On the fifth day, my Aunt Paula appeared at the door. She looked embarrassed and guilty, clutching her purse like a shield. She didn’t stay long.

“Your mother is very upset,” Paula said, avoiding my gaze. “Maybe give her some time.”

“Time for what?” My voice was hoarse from the endotracheal tube they had removed after the surgery. “I didn’t cause the accident. The police report will show…”

“Melissa is pregnant,” Paula interrupted, as if that explained everything.