That afternoon, while I drifted in and out of shallow sleep between nurses checking my vitals and the burning ache of breastfeeding, my parents packed my belongings at the house. They did not call me. They did not ask what I wanted to keep. They decided everything without me.
Two hours before my discharge, Linda returned with a large gym bag and dropped it onto the chair beside my bed.
“These are the essentials,” she said. “Clothes, toiletries, baby things. The rest has been stored.”
My stomach tightened.
“Stored where,” I asked.
She let out a long sigh.
“In the basement,” Linda replied. “Evan needed the room cleared today. His equipment arrived this morning.”
Heat flooded my face, a mixture of shame and disbelief. I tried to protest, but she waved her hand dismissively.
“It was just a room,” she said. “You are acting like we threw you out onto the street. You have somewhere to stay. Stop playing the victim.”
Those words cut deeper than the surgery. When I was discharged, a nurse helped me into a wheelchair while Linda carried Aaron’s carrier. Richard walked ahead, already focused on his phone. I assumed we were going home.
Instead, the car stopped in front of a deteriorating apartment building on the east side of Dayton, its brick facade cracked and stained, its entrance smelling of damp concrete and cigarette smoke.
“You can stay here for now,” Richard said. “A coworker owns the unit. You will pay a symbolic amount. Do not say we abandoned you.”
The building had no elevator. Climbing the stairs felt like slow torture. Each step pulled at my incision. Each breath felt shallow and painful. Linda went ahead carrying the baby bag. Richard followed behind, scrolling through messages. No one offered me a hand.
Inside, the apartment was nearly empty. A thin mattress lay directly on the floor. A plastic chair leaned against the wall. A small, unstable table supported a chipped lamp. The air smelled of mold and old tobacco.
“This is temporary,” Linda said briskly. “You will manage.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Richard cut me off.
“Do not start,” he said. “You have a roof. Evan cannot miss this opportunity.”
When they left, the silence pressed down on me. My hands trembled as I lowered myself onto the mattress, clutching Aaron close to my chest. Pain radiated through my body, and fear settled deep in my bones.
Almost without thinking, I picked up my phone and opened Instagram.