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Three weeks ago, everything fell apart. Lily was struck by a speeding car as she crossed the street after school. The doctors said she was “lucky” to survive—if being unconscious in the ICU, hooked up to machines that breathed for her, could be called lucky. I slept in a chair beside her bed, surviving on vending machine coffee and constant dread.
At first, I didn’t contact my family. But when doctors warned that the next two days would determine whether she lived, I swallowed my pride and called. My mother answered, irritated rather than worried. “Why are you calling during dinner?” she asked. When I told her Lily was in intensive care, my voice trembling, there was a pause—followed by a sigh.
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