During a brief, three-minute lull, I pulled off my latex gloves, washed my hands until the skin was raw, and checked my phone. The family group chat was a digital museum of performative perfection. My mother, Eleanor, was rapidly uploading photos of a dining table set to accommodate twelve. It was an aesthetic masterpiece of sparkling crystal goblets, towering arrangements of white lilies, and a massive, honey-glazed ham taking center stage. My younger sister, Grace—the undisputed, perpetually unemployed “golden child” of the family—was posing at the head of the table. Grace’s two children, clad in matching bespoke linen outfits, were positioned front and center, smiling like tiny royals for the camera.
I scrolled through fourteen photos. I zoomed in on the background of each one. Maya wasn’t in a single frame.
A cold prickle of unease crawled up the back of my neck, a sensation entirely disconnected from the aggressive hospital air conditioning. I quickly typed out a text to my sister.
Beautiful table. Where’s Maya? Did she find the golden egg yet?
Three ellipses danced on the screen for a moment before Grace’s reply popped up, blunt and utterly dismissive: She’s around. Too much noise today, Sarah. We’re busy. Call you tomorrow.
I stared at the glowing screen, the knot in my stomach tightening into a hard, dense stone. The intercom blared, calling me to incoming ambulances, and I shoved the phone back into my scrub pocket, forcing the dread down into the dark basement of my mind. I spent the next four hours resetting bones and pushing IVs, trying to convince myself that I was just being a paranoid mother. I told myself my family loved her. I told myself the sacrifices I made for them trickled down to her.
Just as my shift was finally ending at 11:00 PM, I pulled my battered sedan up to my modest apartment building. Through the freezing drizzle of the Chicago spring night, I saw a small, shivering silhouette. I slammed the car into park and ran through the rain. I found Maya sitting alone on our concrete front stoop in the pitch dark. She was still wearing the handmade Easter dress, now stained with mud at the hem. Her small, rolling suitcase was tucked tightly under her arm, and her eyes were swollen and red from hours of crying.
