Inside: damp walls, stale smoke, a mattress on the floor, a shaky table, one plastic chair.
I tried to speak, but my father cut me off. “You have a roof. Lucas can’t lose this opportunity.”
My mother dropped the bag and said I wasn’t going to die from this. I should stop milking it.
“Stop milking it.”
That’s what Lucas used to say on his streams when someone complained.
Now my own mother was saying it to me.
When they left, it was just me and Noah. My incision throbbed. My hands shook. I picked up my phone and opened Instagram.
I wrote everything. The “your brother needs your room.” The “stop acting like a victim.” The mattress. The C-section.
I posted a photo of my swollen stomach, the scar visible under my hospital gown. I hesitated.
Then I remembered Lucas laughing online, mocking people like me.
And I hit publish.
I thought no one would notice.
By morning, I knew I was wrong.
I barely slept. Between feedings and notifications buzzing nonstop, rest was impossible.
At six a.m., I checked my phone.
Over twelve thousand likes. Hundreds of comments. The number kept climbing.