Tessa tried twice.
They were not transferred to my room.
At 12:18 p.m., my mother texted me.
You are tearing this family apart.
I looked at the message for a long time.
Then I did something I had never done before.
I did not answer.
Silence had been my safest language since childhood, but this silence felt different.
It was not the silence of swallowing pain so someone else could stay comfortable.
It was the silence of a door staying closed.
Later, when the doctor came in, he explained my injuries again.
Cracked ribs.
Severe bruising.
Shoulder strain and immobilization.
A leg injury that required bracing and follow-up.
No, I had not been exaggerating.
No, I had not been dramatic.
No, the monitor had not been decoration.
He said all of that in careful medical language, but I heard the plain version underneath it.
You were hurt.
It mattered.
Someone should have known that without needing a chart.
