I was discharged from St. Luke’s Regional at 2:40 on a Friday afternoon, with three stitches in my lower abdomen, a bag full of discharge papers, and strict instructions not to lift anything heavier than ten pounds for at least a week.

The nurse wheeled me to the entrance and gently asked, “Is someone coming to pick you up?”crsaid

I said yes.

Because at that moment, I still believed my parents would come.

I had texted them earlier that morning after the doctor cleared me. Nothing dramatic—just the facts: minor surgery, no complications, I was stable but sore, and I needed a ride because I wasn’t allowed to drive. My mother responded with a thumbs-up emoji. My father didn’t reply, which in my family usually meant he had already made a decision silently.

So I sat outside under the pale Kentucky sky, one hand resting over the bandage beneath my sweater, trying not to wince every time I shifted.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

Then my phone rang.

It was my mother.

Relief came too quickly. “Hi… are you close?” I asked.

Her voice was bright, distracted. “Sweetheart, we’re at Brookside Mall.”

For a moment, I thought I had misheard. “What?”

“We’re picking up the cake and balloons for Tessa’s birthday. The bakery was delayed, and your father had to stop for candles she wanted.” Then, lowering her voice slightly, she added, “You’ll have to take a bus.”

I went silent.

“A bus?” I repeated.