A Vacation Post at 10:03 p.m.

By morning, after a long night of IV adjustments and me trying to sit up, I checked my phone. No texts from my mom or my sister. Out of habit, I opened Facebook. There it was—matching outfits, sunglasses, drinks on a beach: “The best family vacation.” Posted at 10:03 p.m., the same night I was cut open to bring a life into the world. They knew the date. They knew the hospital. I had asked them to come. They left. I didn’t cry. I just stared until the screen dimmed.

Quiet Help, No Questions

Brandon came in with coffee, sat, took the baby, told me to sleep. He didn’t mention the photo. I didn’t, either. When the nurses asked about discharge and whether I had help at home, I said yes. I didn’t say the truth: my mother hadn’t called; my sister hadn’t checked in.

Six Weeks and Eighty-Eight Missed Calls

Six weeks crawled by. I was still weak, still bleeding, sleeping in pieces, doing part-time work from the couch because clients didn’t care that I had stitches and a newborn. I left my phone on the table for an hour. When I picked it up: 88 missed calls. Mostly from my mom, some from my sister, a few unknown numbers. On top, a text from my sister: “We need $5,000 now. Please.”