I told him I couldn’t even bend properly, that the doctor had ordered rest. He brushed it off. Doctors exaggerate. I was a mother now. I needed to be stronger.
A few hours later, my mother arrived with a bag. She said they’d packed my important things. The rest was in storage. I asked if they’d already emptied my room.
She sighed, irritated. “Don’t start. It’s just surgery. I’ve had worse. Lucas needs quiet and good lighting. With a baby crying all day, that’s impossible. Be reasonable.”
The night before giving birth, Lucas had proudly shown me his Twitch stats—donations, followers, clips of him yelling at the screen. I’d smiled, exhausted.
When I was discharged, my mother pushed my wheelchair. I thought we were going home. Instead, we stopped in front of a rundown apartment building in a worn-out neighborhood.
They said I could stay there temporarily. It belonged to a coworker. I’d pay something small. I shouldn’t claim they weren’t helping me.
Climbing stairs without an elevator, fresh stitches pulling at my skin, was agony. My mother carried the baby bag. My father walked behind us on his phone. No one offered support.