I was discharged from St. Luke’s Regional Hospital at 2:40 on a Friday afternoon, with three stitches in my lower abdomen, a bag full of discharge papers, and strict instructions not to lift anything heavier than ten pounds for at least a week.
The nurse wheeled me to the entrance and asked gently, “Is someone coming to pick you up?”
I said yes.
Because at that moment, I still believed my parents would come.
I had texted them that morning, after the doctor discharged me. Nothing dramatic, just the facts: minor surgery, no complications, I was stable but sore, and I needed a ride because I wasn’t allowed to drive. My mother replied with a thumbs-up emoji. My father didn’t reply, which in my family usually meant he’d already made up his mind.
