I let my sister use my house for her wedding reception. By the end of the night, she had already told everyone she was moving in. When the moving

The anger I’d carried for months didn’t disappear, but it shifted.

“Is she alive?”

“Yes. She broke her leg and fractured her wrist. She’ll recover.” He exhaled shakily.

“I’m at St. Andrew’s with her now.”

I sat down at my kitchen table.

He told me the rest in fragments. After leaving my house, they bounced between short-term rentals, then a motel.

Money disappeared faster than Christine admitted. She had hidden debts—credit cards, personal loans, unpaid car payments—before the wedding. When he found out, they fought constantly.

He worked extra shifts delivering. She kept insisting something better would come along, that family would step in, that things always worked out.

But this time, they didn’t.

The accident itself was simple and stupid: rain, a slick staircase, one missed step while carrying laundry. The deeper truth was harsher.

They had been living on the edge for months, and eventually something had to give.

“Why are you calling me?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Because she asked for you when she woke up. And because… I think she finally understands.”

I didn’t trust that.

Christine had “understood” things before—usually right before asking for another favor. Still, two hours later, I was standing in her hospital room.

She looked smaller than I remembered. No makeup.

Hair flat. One arm in a brace, one leg elevated. The force of her personality, which usually filled every space, seemed to have drained away.

“I’m not here for a scene,” I said.

She gave a weak, humorless laugh.