Mom reached over the rail toward the clear mask covering Emma’s face. Before her fingers got there, the nurse crossed the room, Marcus stepped into the space beside the bed, and Josh rose with the printed messages in his hand. Then the social worker came through the doorway carrying the folder my parents had never expected anyone outside our family to read.

“What did you give her?” she demanded.

I stood beside Emma’s bed. “Everything you sent me.”

Dad unfolded his arms. “Those were private family conversations.”

The social worker didn’t argue with him. She simply said, “This is a pediatric intensive care unit. Your granddaughter’s medical care comes first.”

Mom laughed once, sharp and ugly. “Medical care? Look at her. She’s lying there doing nothing while my other granddaughter’s birthday is being destroyed.”

Marcus took one step toward her.

I caught his arm before he could say

I wanted my parents to hear me, not him.

“Leave,” I said.

Mom stared at me as if she could still force me back into the version of myself who apologized whenever she became angry.

“You are really choosing this over your family?”

I looked at Emma.

Her head was bandaged. Her little fingers were taped around an IV. Machines beside her tracked every heartbeat and every breath.

“She is my family.”