At least, that was the lie.
That afternoon Matthew drove to the pharmacy to pick up my antibiotics, sterile pads, and the extra gauze the hospital told us to keep nearby in case my incision started bleeding. I was moving slowly around the room, one careful step at a time, while my daughter Valerie slept in the bassinet beside the bed.
Then my mother got a phone call.
I knew from her face that it was Danielle before she even spoke. My mother had worn that same expression my entire life whenever my sister wanted something. Tight mouth. Narrow eyes. The look that meant the whole world was about to bend in Danielle’s direction.
She stepped into the room and said it like she was announcing the weather.
Danielle is on her way with the baby. She needs this room more than you do.
At first I honestly thought she was joking. Danielle had always been the favorite. The fragile one. The one who cried and got what she wanted. The one who lost jobs, wasted money, picked fights, and still somehow ended up protected from every consequence. But even then, I never imagined my mother would say that to me while I was still shaking from surgery.
I looked at her and whispered that I could barely stand. I asked her to please let me rest until Matthew got back so we could figure something out.
She crossed her arms and told me I was moving just fine.
