The first thing I tasted after the crash was blood. The second was betrayal.
Rain slammed against the windshield like gravel while my six-week-old son cried from the back seat. The SUV that had run the red light sat twisted in the intersection, smoke rising from its hood. My ribs burned every time I tried to breathe, and my left leg would not move.
“Eli,” I gasped, twisting toward the infant carrier. “Baby, I’m here.”
A firefighter reached him before I could.
“He’s breathing,” he said. “Scared, but okay.”
At the hospital, with machines beeping around me and pain medication making my tongue heavy, I called my mother.
“Mom,” I said, fighting to stay awake. “I was in an accident. I need you to take Eli for a few days.”
There was a pause. Then I heard ice clink against a glass.
“Oh, Maren,” she sighed. “This is really terrible timing.”
I stared at the ceiling.
“I’m in the emergency room.”
“I know,” she replied. “But your sister never has these emergencies. Chloe plans ahead. Chloe doesn’t create chaos.”
My throat tightened.
“Mom, he’s six weeks old.”
“And I already paid for my Caribbean cruise,” she said. “It’s nonrefundable.”
For nine years, I had covered her mortgage, utilities, groceries, medical bills, and endless “emergency money.” Four thousand five hundred dollars every month, because Dad had died and she claimed she was drowning. Because Chloe was always “between opportunities.” Because I was the responsible daughter.
