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.

Maybe that explained it.

I stared at her. This woman who had given me extra cookies when I was a child, who had taught me how to braid my hair, who I had thought genuinely cared about me, not just about my usefulness in the family hierarchy.

“So it’s okay? What happened to me?”

Paula shifted her weight, looking everywhere but at my face.

“You have to understand, your mother was terrified. Melissa could have lost her baby. She’s not thinking clearly right now.”

“She told me I wasn’t her daughter anymore,” I said flatly. “Dad kicked me in the broken arm.” Melissa smiled at me pityingly. “What was so unclear about that?”

“You’re being dramatic,” Paula said, but her voice lacked conviction. “Family fights happen. Once everyone calms down, they’ll stop.”

“Get out.”

The words sounded more confident than I felt.

“If you came here to make excuses for them, I don’t want to hear it.”

She quickly walked away, relieved to be free from the tension.

I watched him leave and wondered how many other relatives would have chosen the easier route of supporting my parents rather than admitting the truth.

Probably everyone.

After she left, I lay in the hospital bed, staring at the ceiling, and something inside me shifted.