You may have seen me behind the wheel that morning, driving home from Noah’s six-week pediatric appointment, unaware that a single moment would change everything. A pickup truck ran a red light, and suddenly airbags exploded around me. Sirens wailed. I was dimly aware of the pale ceiling of Mercy General hovering above.
The doctor explained that I had a fractured pelvis and a torn shoulder ligament. “You’ll need several days here,” she said softly. “And you won’t be able to lift your baby for a while.”
My husband, Ethan, was stranded in Seattle because of a storm. Noah’s cries echoed down the hospital corridor while a nurse awkwardly rocked him in my sister’s extra car seat.
I called my mother, Diane. She lived twenty minutes away. For nine years—ever since my father passed and she said she was “overwhelmed”—I’d sent her $4,500 every month to cover her mortgage, utilities, and insurance. I never questioned it. I just paid.
