The slap came so hard and fast I didn’t see the wind-up. One moment I was propped up on pillows; the next, I was on the floor, my IV stand crashing down with me, the machine screaming its electronic protest.

Gary stood over me, his chest heaving. His Bowling League Championship Ring—the cubic zirconia monstrosity he never shut up about winning in 2019—had caught my lip when he connected. He was yelling something about how I needed to stop pretending, stop being dramatic, stop costing him money.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. He was creating quite the dramatic scene himself, especially when two nurses, a burly security guard, and eventually three police officers rushed in.

You should have seen Gary’s face when the uniforms walked in. It went from purple rage to sheet-white shock faster than his beloved Corvette—the one he claimed could do 0 to 60 in 4.2 seconds, though he never tested it because he was too cheap to waste the premium gas. He immediately switched gears, putting on his “concerned father” mask. He tried to explain it was all a misunderstanding, just some “tough love,” and that “kids these days”—I was pushing thirty—needed discipline.