My sister Lauren, two years younger than me, had always been the favorite. Still, I didn’t believe even my mother could say something like that to someone who had just gone through surgery.
“Mom, I can barely stand,” I whispered. “At least let me rest until Ethan gets back. Then we can figure something out.”
She didn’t hesitate.
“You’re moving just fine. Start packing.”
My father, Victor, stood in the doorway, avoiding my eyes.
When I tried to stand with Ava in my arms and the pain nearly doubled me over, I murmured that it was cruel.
That’s when my mother snapped.
She stormed over, grabbed my hair, and yanked me toward the edge of the bed.
“Stop whining!” she screamed. “Pack your things and get out.”
Pain shot through my body as my incision burned.
My father sighed, annoyed.
“Get her out,” he muttered. “She’s making a scene.”
Ten minutes later, Lauren walked in with her stroller and bags, wearing that same smug half-smile.
She looked at my swollen face, my stained nightgown, my half-packed suitcase by the door.
“Finally,” she said. “I’ll have the room without your drama.”