Music.
Laughter.
Then champagne popped.
My father sighed like I had interrupted something important.
“Imara, this is really bad timing.
We just closed on Danica’s yacht.”
I stared at the white clinic wall.
“A yacht?”
My mother laughed somewhere behind him.
“Tell her not to be dramatic!”
Then my sister grabbed the phone.
“Imara, seriously?” Danica snapped.
“Can you stop k*lling the vibe of my party?
Take some Advil or something.”
Something inside me went completely still.
I had served eight years.
I had pushed through pain and exhaustion without complaint, because that is the job and because complaining was never a thing my family permitted me.
But to my own parents, my leg was worth less than a champagne toast on my sister’s new toy.
I hung up without saying goodbye.
Two days later, someone knocked on my apartment door.
When I opened it, my little brother Theo stood there with grease still under his fingernails and red-rimmed eyes.
