Two hours later, my phone buzzed.
A text from my mother:
Heard you’re in the hospital. Victoria has a job interview tomorrow so we can’t come today. Rest up. Drink fluids.
That was all.
No call. No visit. No Are you all right?
Just drink fluids.
I spent three days in that hospital and signed my own discharge papers. I took an Uber home to my apartment, recovered alone on instant noodles, and stared at the ceiling while the pain slowly faded.
On the third day, someone knocked on my door.
Great-aunt Dorothy stood in the hallway holding a pot of homemade soup, a fruit basket, and a bouquet of sunflowers.
“The hospital called me,” she said. “Your emergency contact section was empty, but they found my name listed on your insurance as secondary family.”
I burst into tears.
She held me for a long time.
That week, Dorothy stayed with me. She cooked. Cleaned. Made sure I took my medication. And she told me stories about the Harrison family no one else had ever told me.
“Your grandmother Catherine was fire,” she said one evening. “She died when you were still a baby, but she would have adored you.”
“What about Grandfather?” I asked.
Dorothy’s smile faded. She set down her tea.
“William is… complicated.”
“Mom and Dad say he’s dead.”
“I know what they say.”
Her tone was careful. Too careful.
“But Robert has always had a difficult relationship with the truth.”
“So he’s alive?”
She did not answer directly.
Instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out an old photograph, the edges worn soft with age.
A young man in a white coat stood outside a hospital. Dark hair. Kind eyes. A familiar smile.
Too familiar.
“Who is that?”
“Daniel Harrison.” Her voice broke a little. “Your father’s older brother.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Dad has a brother?”
“Had,” Dorothy said, wiping at her eyes. “
