My hands shook as I typed.
“I’m at the hospital with Rosalie. She’s still on the ventilator. I can’t come tomorrow.”
I stared at the screen after I sent it.
Part of me still expected my mother to read the word ventilator and become the grandmother Brooklyn believed she was.
I expected a phone call.
I expected concern.
I expected her to ask whether Rosalie was stable, whether Kevin had eaten, whether Brooklyn needed a ride home, or whether I needed clean clothes.
Her answer appeared almost immediately.
“Priorities. Show up or stay out of our lives.”
The words were so blunt that they cleared something inside me.
Then my father joined the conversation.
“Your sister’s day is more important than your drama. Don’t ruin this for her.”
Drama.
My newborn daughter was fighting for every breath, and my father called it drama.
Courtney’s message came next.
