My hands were shaking so hard I had to grip the back of a waiting room chair to stay upright. They stood there, my mother, her lips pressed into a thin line of scorn, and my sister, checking her phone as if this was the most boring argument in the world. And I felt something inside me turn to stone.

“You want me to bake cupcakes?” I repeated slowly, my voice dangerously quiet. “While my daughter is in the ICU, fighting for her life?”