My appendix ruptured at 2 a.m., and I called my parents seventeen times before the world began to blur. My mother finally texted back: “Your sister’s baby shower is tomorrow. We can’t leave now.”

It was 1:06 a.m.

The hour of emergencies.

The hour when phones become lifelines or tombstones.

“What happened?”

“He won’t stop crying. Mom said I’m spoiling him by picking him up too much, but he’s only a baby, and I don’t know—he sounds like he’s hurting, and I called the pediatrician line, but they haven’t called back yet, and I thought…”

Her voice broke.

“I thought you would answer.”

There it was.

Not an apology.

Not yet.

But a call.

And this time, I answered.

“Is he feverish?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have a thermometer?”

“Yes.”

“Use it.”

I heard shuffling. Noah wailed in the background. Claire breathed in panicked little bursts.

“Rectal or forehead?”

“Forehead.”

“Use it.”

A pause.

“100.9.”

“How old is he?”

“Five months.”

“Call the nurse line again. If he’s inconsolable and you’re scared, take him in. Trust yourself.”

“I don’t trust myself.”

The words came out raw.

I closed my eyes.

I remembered standing on Gerald’s porch, telling Claire to build a happy family.

Maybe building began in moments like this.

Small.

Terrified.

Unpretty.

“Then trust that you love him enough to get help,” I said. “Go to urgent care or the ER. Don’t wait for Mom’s permission.”

Claire sobbed.

“She says I’m dramatic.”