I felt something inside me crack.
“Dad,” I whispered, tears spilling freely now, “Lily is barely holding on. She could—she could pass away.”
There was a pause.
Then, cold as ice, he said,
“She’ll be fine.”
Fine.
“As for you,” he continued, “you still have family responsibilities.”

I sobbed.
“Please. Can you and Mom come here? I—I need you. She needs you.”
The line went dead.
They hung up on me.

An hour later, the ICU doors slammed open.
I jumped to my feet.
My parents stormed in, ignoring the nurses calling after them. My mother’s heels clicked sharply against the sterile floor. My father’s face was tight with irritation—as if he were the one being inconvenienced.