The elevator doors slid shut, severing all of it.
I took a taxi straight back to my dorm. The entire ride, my phone buzzed against my thigh. Messages and missed calls flooded the screen—a relentless tide of justification.
Mom's text came first:
You've disappointed me today. That boy is only eighteen, and his whole family lives on welfare. If we don't help him, he's gone. You're my daughter; you need to be bigger than this.
I scrolled to Dad's barrage:
Sam, Max isn't like you. He has no one. He's already attempted suicide twice since his diagnosis. Your mother couldn't just stand by and watch him die!
You caused a scene today, and now the whole hospital is talking. How is your mother supposed to run her department with rumors flying? Come back and apologize. Now.
I deleted the thread without reading the rest.
When my roommates found out, they rallied around me, outraged on my behalf. Tears blurred my vision. Even strangers can feel sorry for me, I thought bitterly. So why do my own parents treat me like the enemy?
I barricaded myself in the dorm for two days. When I finally turned my phone back on, my finger slipped—accidentally answering Uncle Richard's call.