None of them came. Not my parents. Not Victoria. No texts. No flowers. Nothing.
So I stayed silent and focused on my child—until my mother called again.
“Your sister’s party is tomorrow,” she said coldly. “If you don’t show up, you’re no longer part of this family.”
I was stunned. I tried once more to explain that Lily was still unconscious, that I couldn’t leave her side, that she might not survive.
Before I could finish, Victoria snatched the phone. She was yelling. “Stop hiding behind your kid! You always make excuses. Everything has to be about you. If you actually cared about this family, you’d show up for once.”
The call ended abruptly.
I stood there staring at my phone, my hands trembling, my pulse racing—not from fear anymore, but from something far colder. That was the instant they went too far.
I turned my gaze to Lily, so small and still beneath the harsh ICU lights, and made up my mind.
I would attend the party.
And they would regret forcing me to.
The following evening, I stepped into my parents’ house dressed in a plain black dress, my expression composed, every emotion sealed tight. The living room buzzed with guests—friends, colleagues, neighbors—all gathered to celebrate Victoria. She stood at the center of it all, radiant, laughing loudly, thriving on the spotlight.
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