The day after my C-section, my own parents threw me out of the apartment to give my room to my sister and her newborn. I could barely stand. When I begged my mother to let me lie down until my husband came back, she grabbed me by the hair.
She screamed at me to stop complaining and get out.
My father stood there looking at me with open disgust, and my sister smiled like she had just won something she believed had always belonged to her.
Until my husband arrived.
And everything changed.
My name is Lucy. I am thirty-one years old. And twenty-four hours after surgery, I was thrown out of my parents’ apartment in Riverside with my baby in my arms.
Not because I had done anything wrong.
Because my sister Danielle had called, said she was coming over with her newborn son, and my mother decided that my pain mattered less than Danielle’s convenience.
Matthew and I were only there because a burst pipe had flooded the bedroom in our house. The hardwood had warped, the mattress had been dragged into the living room, and the plumber told us the place needed at least two more days before it was safe for a recovering mother and a newborn.
So my parents said I could stay in my old room.
